


We'll Meet Again

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Epistolary, For the prompt Past/Future, Ghosts, Hand Jobs, I Made Myself Cry, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infidelity, It's somehow always 1895, Love Letters, M/M, Magical Realism, Major Character Death in the sense that all lives end eventually, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reunion Sex, Sad with a Happy Ending, Semi-Public Sex, Suicide, There'll be a prolonged separation, They'll have a life together, Undercover behind enemy lines, War Crimes, Yet though the world explodes these two survive, playing fast and lose with historical facts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-11-02 12:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10944489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: London during WW II: Doctor John Watson has a hot, anonymous brief encounter with a beautiful stranger during blackout. But they get interrupted. Will they ever meet again?Bittersweet Johnlock WWII AU with a twist to the present day in the end.





	1. Chapter One

It’s dark. Really, absolutely, totally dark. It’s like playing Blind Man’s Buff with the whole of London. One can’t see one’s hand in front of one’s face. The only signs that help Doctor John Watson navigate the streets of the capital during blackout are some white marks painted on the street kerbs and, on the bigger crossings, ghostly policemen in luminescent capes directing the traffic. Nowadays, he walks the distance between Farringdon Station and St Bart’s hospital. There are still buses running, but their displays are not lit. After jumping onto the wrong bus for the third time, finding himself in Islington instead of at the hospital, John had taken to walking.

It’s not without danger either. As cars are not allowed to switch on their headlights, the number of deadly road accidents has skyrocketed. Before the Blitz, most severe injuries John had treated at Bart's resulted from car accidents. He also used to collide frequently with other pedestrians before most of them started to carry something white- a handkerchief, a newspaper, gloves, a brassard. It helps. John himself usually takes a newspaper but tonight it’s raining, so he’s tugged The Telegraph away in his satchel. Gladly, due to the ghastly weather, there are only very few people about.

Because of the heavy rain, John decides to take a short cut via the now empty Smithfield market. Usually, he avoids the area. He gets enough blood and gore at the hospital these days; sometimes, just the smell of it makes him sick. Despite, there are some rather strange things going on around the market. John had overheard whispered conversations that mentioned secret experiments, and some rather shady figures can be seen entering the market at all hours or loitering about. It’s all very hush-hush, of course, but John instinctively tries to keep his distance nonetheless. Better not get in anyone’s way these days. Having secrets is a dangerous thing during times like these. Everyone is snooping around. Paranoia spreads as German spies are seen everywhere.

John Watson has his own secrets that have nothing to do with espionage. Yet he guards them even more closely than if he’d been involved in treason. He’s learned his lesson. Careless talk costs indeed lives.

On the other hand, the blackout has its advantages. The dark streets make some encounters much easier. For someone who's used to move in the shadows, it seems like the natural habitat. John has never been one for frequenting public conveniences or theatre foyers, and therefore had been a little shocked when he’d been picked up for the first time while waiting on the kerb to cross the street. A man had stepped up behind him, touched his behind, and whispered a street corner just a short walk away into his ear. John had initially frozen, then feared blackmail or a robbery, but still, he’d followed the siren call, ending up pushed against a grimy alley wall with his trousers around his ankles, while a faceless stranger had swallowed him down until he'd come with a bitten off cry.

This has happened a few times now. These rendezvous have a dreamlike quality to them; no names exchanged, no questions asked. Easy come, easy go. That’s how things are today. When people get reminded every day that life's too short to feel guilty or ashamed, everything starts to shift. Morals are decidedly becoming lose. Men like John grab every opportunity that arises, for they could be conscripted tomorrow and shipped off to some godforsaken shithole to fight – and very likely die - for Queen and country. Who knows what might happen the next day? Carpe diem is the motto of the times. John has no problem with that. Yet, those impersonal encounters leave him somewhat empty, unfulfilled…

The rain suddenly intensifies from a slight drizzle to a proper English gush. Of course, it’s one of those evenings when John has forgotten to take his umbrella. Not especially keen to get soaked and having to work the whole night in slightly damp trousers, he runs towards the arches of the market, the central passageway open all hours, even if the stalls are deserted now. Or almost deserted.

When John leans against the damp shutters to get his breath back, he can sense the presence of another human being. But it’s too dark to see anything. Suddenly, a cigarette glows not five feet away. John can smell the rich, sharp scent of Turkish tobacco, a luxury these days. There seems to be a pale face behind the red glimmer, just barely illuminated, but not enough to make out any detail.

“Good evening.” A deep voice says, coming from the direction of the smoker, and John actually jumps a little.

“Evening.” He replies nonetheless. British politeness takes the victory over awkwardness.

“Terrible weather, isn’t it?” The man asks in a voice that indicates very clearly that he’s not the slightest bit interested in nor bothered by the weather.

John makes a noncommittal noise.

“Finished for today?” What is it with this chap? His voice is rather posh, educated. Definitely upper class. So why is he trying to chat John up?

“No, on my way to work actually.” John answers, hoping to shut the nosy stranger up.

“Ah, I see.” Another drag on the cigarette.

John can positively feel being stared at and assessed. The hairs at the back of his neck stand to attention.

“You don’t seem in a hurry.” The faceless voice states.

John swallows. He’d been early for his shift. They always need Doctors at the hospital these days. John prefers being busy than sitting alone in his dingy room, staring at the peeling wallpaper, listening to Vera Lynn singing on the wireless in the kitchen of his landlady, until he wants to smash something.

_We'll meet again_  
_Don't know where_  
_Don't know when_

“Is that any of your business?” John bites out, getting angry and deciding to let it show.

Suddenly, the man is much closer, crowding him in against the metal shutter, hovering over him. John can smell tobacco, damp wool and expensive soap. He should push this bloke away and be done with it, but he doesn’t.

“Could be.” The man outright growls and a shiver runs down John’s spine. He looks up and despite the darkness is able to make out a long pale face framed by dark curls. John knows he really should say something and licks his lips, but no sound comes out of his mouth.

Until there’s a slim firm hand reaching between his legs and cupping his cock through his trousers. It’s like a punch to the gut. John’s head thuds back against the shutter as he closes his eyes, gasping softly. Long fingers start to massage him rather expertly as the man moves even closer, positively shielding him. John can feel the stranger's hot breath against his neck as his cock thickens under the seductive touch.

But John’s not a selfish bloke. After the initial shock is over, he reaches out and finds the man’s waist, drags his fingers down to the fly and unhooks the fastener. There's warm flesh beneath velvety corduroy as lean hips push against his palms. John tugs on a starched shirt until his fingers brush silky skin, almost too smooth to be a man’s. God, if he could only see…

Lips press against his neck, sucking lightly. John bucks against the man's hand, desperate for friction, while his own cold fingers push inside the man's shorts. The stranger hisses as John's icy fingertips make contact with his hard shaft, already damp at the head, but the curse is quickly transformed into an outright lewd moan. They rub and grind against each other, trying to keep quiet, stifling their gasps as best they can out of fear of being caught.

Suddenly, plush lips ghost over John's mouth. He parts his lips instantly, and a wet tongue slides in. This very effectively helps to silence them both. 'Bloody genius,' John thinks, licking into the stranger's mouth. Their tongues entwine; John feels the pleasure building in his gut as the hand between his legs speeds up while an eager tongue simultaneously fucks his mouth. John can almost taste how close he is, and becomes dimly aware that he might come in his pants any second now. As if on cue, his assailant drops to his knees, swiftly opens his fly and takes him into his mouth.

John shoves one of his fists into his mouth to not cry out, raking the other through silky, damp hair, and comes down the stranger's throat. Gorgeous lips suck him through it, greedily caressing his shaft to milk him dry. Despite the darkness, it would be quite obvious what they doing for anyone who happens to pass them by. The danger is tantalising, making John’s blood boil in his veins.

Only when he’s swallowed every drop does the man get back up again, pressing his face into the crook of John's neck as he wantonly humps his thigh and hip, panting huffs of humid air against John's collar bone until John pulls his face up into a desperate kiss, tasting himself on the man's tongue.

They both jump when they can hear footsteps approaching. It’s too dark for anyone to see what they are up to, yet still, the risk is just too high. Quickly, John tugs himself away, fastening his still open trousers. Someone’s passing them. John can hear chatter and laughter over his own heavy breathing, his heart beating in his throat. When the group has eventually walked by and must be out of earshot, he turns, trying to find his new acquaintance, but it’s too damn dark.

“Hello?” John whispers. There’s no answer. All he can hear is the drumming of raindrops on the market’s roof. He still has their mingled tastes on his tongue while he imagines smelling just a whiff of the unique scent that enveloped him mere seconds ago.

Carefully, John moves down the dark passage, reminding him of a black, gaping void, one hand against the row of closed market stall shutters, but there’s no one about. He’s alone, his heart beating fast, hammering against his ribcage.

“Hello?” He asks once again, but knows that there won't be a reply. It's over. The man is gone, swallowed by the all-encompassing gloom. John's heart sinks. He slowly takes a full 360 degree turn and almost loses his sense of direction, propelled out of his orbit. He feels like floating in a fathomless sea. The loneliness wrings a sob from his throat. In the distance, two men start shouting angrily at each other. John seriously contemplates to get between them, to pick a fight, just to feel something, the rush of adrenaline, anything happening in his life, even if it's just confirmed by pain.

But he doesn't. Instead, he turns towards the market's exit and the hospital, where he's needed.

As John had expected, there’s already plenty to do. It gets quite hectic after two hours. A German air raid hitting the East End. The hooters caterwaul with the by now all too familiar signal, calling the people to hide inside the shelters. 'Bloody Messerschmitts,' John curses inwardly as he stays on the ward, attending to an old man who fell down the stairs outside his home because of the blackout. His patient says he's too old to run down into the cellar, that he's fought the Krauts back in 1914 and will be damned if he creeps away in fear now. John just nods and stays with him. If they'll be hit by a bomb, so be it. He'd die while doing his duty, following his vocation. What more can he ask for?

The night flies by. After the raid, the hospital is flooded with new patients, most of them women and children. Some have nasty burns due to the phosphorus bombs the German bastards drop. On civilians! On people who can't defend themselves. The cowardice makes John shake with rage as he patches up an eight year old boy who will probably never use his right arm again. It's so bloody unfair. He can hear Vera Lynn sing from the nurse’s common room and laughs at the irony.

_We'll meet again_  
_Don't know where, don't know when_  
_But I know we'll meet again_  
_Some sunny day_

John’s knackered when his shift finally ends as the sun creeps up over St Paul’s, still standing proud. It promises to be a bright spring day but he’s too tired to appreciate it much. He longs for a cup of real coffee, not this horrible substitute made of barley, and a hot bath, knowing that neither will be forthcoming at his present lodgings. He sighs heavily and pushes his hands into the pockets of his still slightly damp coat. There’s a piece of paper in it – and old receipt, a wrapper? – with which he idly starts to play as he walks towards the station. The Smithfield market is already opening, but John decides to walk through the passageway anyway, despite the sight and smell of pig carcasses. 

God, he's getting sentimental!

His eyes stare at the spot where he and the stranger had stood last evening, making out. It had all started so promising, yet it had been over before it really began. Story of his life, it seems. Like his military career. Like his marriage. John sighs again, than takes out the rubbish he’s been fiddling with to throw it away. It’s a piece of paper torn from a cigarette package, Balkan Sobrarie, smelling richly of tobacco. John frowns. He doesn’t smoke… yet the smell takes him back to last night. He hesitates with the scrap piece of paper in his hand, slowly brings it close to his face and inhales.

His body is experiencing the odd sensation of remembering how good it felt to be touched, kissed. John just stands there, lost in memories. He suddenly so badly wants to experience those sensations again that he can barely breathe.

The moment passes, like everything else. John stares at his hand and the crushed piece of paper.

There's something scribbled onto it with pencil, slightly blurred spidery letters. As if written in a hurry; as if written without looking.

_“Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.”_ John reads and grins.

There's a name and address below: Sherlock Holmes, 221 b Baker Street, W 1.

It could be dangerous. It could be blackmail, for all John knows. Many men walking the streets supplement their income like this. Spread their legs once, then cash in on it until their victims have bled dry. Or killed themselves. Yet somehow the name and address seem oddly familiar to John. It's like an echo of something from another time, a distant past, on the fringe of his perception just beyond his grasp. Instinctively, he trusts this message. And the man who wrote it. Because he'd also risked a lot. And yet it had seemed worth it to him.

John speeds up and hurries towards the station. Baker Street is just a short ride from Farringdon on the Metropolitan and District line. The sun is warm on his back as John Watson walks briskly through the waking London streets, the newfound enticing prospect literally adding a spring to his step. His heart is singing.

For a short moment, he allows himself to image a future in which he might openly indulge in his happiness for everyone to see. A time in which he isn't forced to hide who he is, whom he loves and what he feels. He knows that it's a flight of fancy, but on this beautiful morning, heading towards a beautiful man, John Watson allows himself a little fanciful indulgence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are interesting accounts of experiences of gay men in wartime blackout London in Hugh David, On Queer Street, p 146-150. I always wanted to use those anecdotes for a story, and this prompt seemed a good opportunity.
> 
> Vera Lynn was a very famous singer, especially during the war. You can listen to a version of her most famous song We'll Meet Again here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHcunREYzNY
> 
> I tried to research men's underwear from the 1940s as well as cigarette brands and London transport. However, this is porn, not a history book, so there might be historical inconsistencies for which I apologise.
> 
> There actually was a secret operation going on during the war at Smithfield market, trying to produce pykrete. 'The experiments were carried ... in a refrigerated meat locker in a Smithfield Market butcher's basement, behind a protective screen of frozen animal carcasses'. I can somehow picture Sherlock, as a chemist or as a detective, being involved in such wartime efforts. That might be the reason why he's about the market at night. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smithfield,_London#20th_century


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides to seize his chance and visits Sherlock at Baker Street where interesting and somewhat illicit events ensue.

Luckily, the Metropolitan and District Line is running without interruptions for once. The air strike last night did hit again the East End, but apparently the more central parts of London were spared. Still, the platforms and cars are crammed, which is annoying as the journey to Baker Street takes nearly half an hour due to the usual delays.

John isn't so lucky as to get a seat. He has to stand, swaying slightly while holding onto a strap. He's exhausted from his night shift, despite his heart beating hard and fast in his chest at the prospect of meeting the stranger from last night again. He toys with the slip of paper in his pocket until he almost falls asleep, only woken up by the rattling of the train when it runs over a turnout. 

It's hot and humid in the car. The air smells of cabbage, unwashed people, wool, wet dog and cigarettes. John is glad when the train eventually reaches Baker Street and he can finally get off. The station is a labyrinth, a hideous conglomerate of older stations, fused together by narrow stairs, aching lifts and dark passages. When he surfaces , John takes a few deep breaths in the bright morning sun. 

As he turns left and walks up Baker Street, he passes buildings walled with sand bags. Others are damaged to different degrees by bombs, yet not recently. There are not that many people about at this time of day, as it's almost nine o'clock in the morning. School and work have started, and John sees only housewives on their way to do what passes for shopping these days and mostly consists of queueing for one's rations.

The ground floor of 221 Baker Street is quite fittingly occupied by a small bakery. Next to it's bright red store front, however, is a black door that seems to lead to flats above the shop. John takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and knocks.

He has no idea what might await him. But no risk, no fun.

John waits a little but when nothing happens, he knocks again, louder this time, and steps back onto the pavement to gaze up at the facade. He can see the curtain of a window on the first floor move slightly. About a minute later, the front door is opened a fraction and a pale face pears out at him, surrounded by dark curls. A sharp gaze runs him up and down before the door is opened a little wider.

“What do you want?” A deep voice asks brusquely. It's the man from last night. Or is it? The voice sounds the same, a posh, velveteen baritone. But as it had been too dark to see each other properly, John can't be sure.

“Are you Mr Holmes? Sorry, I think we... met last night, at Smithfield Market, and you invited me?” John is suddenly doubting that this has been a good idea. 

The man stares at him a little longer, blinking rapidly. “Did I? Maybe I did. Come in, anyway.”

John somewhat reluctantly steps over the threshold into a gloomy hall. His host doesn't wait for him but is already ascending the stairs, his rather daring burgundy silk dressing gown billowing in his wake. John follows upstairs, a little confused about this strange greeting.

On the first floor, a door stands ajar, opening into a cluttered sitting room. John looks around in awe. There are stuffed animals residing on shelves crammed with books (in different languages); a human skeleton stands to attention in one corner. The large desk between the windows is covered in papers. The dining table is occupied with what seems to be a rather complex chemical experiment, containing test tubes, Erlenmeyer flasks and a Bunsen burner. The room smells heavily of incense while the curtains are drawn, shutting out the sunshine. His host has reclined onto a velvet settee, lying back on embroidered cushions, one arm stretched languidly above his hand, a cigarette dangling from long, white fingers. 

He's definitely wearing just his dressing gown and nothing else. His pale, hairless chest is visible despite the low light in the vee of the parting fabric, as are his long, lean, milky white legs, covered only in a light fuzz of downy hair.

The face looking up at John is almost ethereal, the most striking feature the almond-shaped eyes the colour of mother of pearl. High cheekbones, a hawklike nose and a pointed chin are framed by a mass of unruly black curls. Full, curved lips suck seductively on the cigarette, and most of John's blood rushes south, tightening his trousers.

“What do you want?” That enticing mouth asks, the voice low and smooth and utterly bored.

“You slipped me your address. Do you remember? Last night, Smithfield Market...?” John feels his cheeks heat as he stammers helplessly, searching his pockets for the piece of paper to occupy his hands.

The man John truly hopes is Sherlock Holmes makes a dismissive gesture. “Yes, obviously. But what do you _want_?”

John is not sure what he's landed himself into. Blackmail is still an option. But, suddenly, he has another suspicion and feels his stomach lurch. God, has he really been so naive?

“Sorry, this seems to be a mistake. I'm really not after... that. Don't bother, I see myself out.” He turns, sure that by now his face must be the colour of beetroot.

“I'm not a prostitute.”

John stills, feeling caught out, but turns again. “I didn't insinuate... excuse me, this is all very confusing. I'd still think I better go.”

Suddenly, the man drops his lazy demeanour and sits up. He even puts his cigarette away in a saucer on a nearby low table.

“I'm not a prostitute. I'm not after your money. I just want to know why you came by now. You are obviously tired, having worked a busy night-shift. Yet you took the trouble to come over. Why?” There's genuine curiosity in his tone.

John relaxes a bit. “May I?” He gestures over to another low Ottoman and, as his host nods in approval, sinks down onto it, trying to stay upright and not succumb to the temptation of lying back even if just for a little while. “You were suddenly gone last night. I searched for you... I thought something might have spooked you. But I couldn't get our... encounter out of my head. Yet I didn't even get a proper look at you. Then, this morning, I found your note in my coat pocket and thought, sod it, there was an air strike just last night, who knows how long we might have, carpe diem and so on, so I better go over to your place right now. And here I am.” John sounds a little lost at the end of his speech.

Sherlock regards him with a strange mixture of sympathy and impatience. Suddenly, he almost jumps to his feet. “Coffee!” He announces, as if he's just discovered the existence of said beverage. “You need some coffee. Strong and sweet. Perhaps some nice crumpets to go with it. Afterwards, a hot bath, and some sleep.”

“That would be lovely...” John mutters, but his host has already left the room and made for what seems to be the kitchen. John follows and catches Sherlock grinding real coffee beans in a coffee mill. The smell alone makes his mouth water and his eyes burn.

“Is that... How do you come by real coffee?” He almost chokes on his own saliva.

“Oh, that... Let's say I have connections. Why don't you pop down to the bakery and order something to eat. Tell Mrs Hudson to have it billed on me. She owns the shop and is also my landlady.”

John does as he's told, staggering downstairs almost in trance. The old woman behind the counter smiles at him, nods, and quickly hands him a bag containing still warm crumpets, excusing herself for being unable to provide him with butter as well. John doesn't mind, however, and ascends the stairs again, nearly tripping over his own feet out of sheer exhaustion. 

He can hear Vera Lynn sing on the wireless in the small cafe and grins.

_We'll meet again_  
_Don't know where_  
_Don't know when_

Upstairs, he's greeted with a pot of hot black coffee, two cups, a pile of sugar cues and a small jug of real cream. 

“Have I died and this is heaven?” He asks, taking a sip from the excellent coffee, closing his eyes as he savours the taste.

“There is no such place.” Sherlock states, raising his cup to his mouth. John has to look away.

“An atheist, are we?” John asks for anything better to say.

“Eat your crumpets while they are still hot.” The other man smiles at him. John obliges, sighing softly when he's finished, liking his fingers.

“Now let me run you a bath.” His gangly host is on his feet already, clasping his hands together in front of his face. His eagerness is rather endearing.

John suddenly remembers that he's an Englishman. He's not supposed to take a bath at an eccentric stranger's place. “Wait... what... I can't.”

“Nonsense. You look rather tense. Come on.” Sherlock strides off down a corridor. At its end, there's a door to a large bathroom equipped with a claw footed tub. Hot water is already running as John enters.

“Strip.” Sherlock orders, pouring sweet smelling bath salt into the hot water.

“Uhm...” John rasps.

“What? I had your cock in my mouth last night. Don't get coy now.”

John blushes at those blunt words, but then, it's true. So he strips until he stands starkers onto the black and white tiles, modestly covering his genitals with his hands.

When the tub is eventually filled, he lowers himself into it with a soft sigh. To his utter surprise, Sherlock opens his dressing gown, lets it slide from his shoulders, and clambers into the tub as well.

“Move a little.” He demands, being all elbows and legs, and John does, so that Sherlock can arrange his long limbs until he cradles John from behind. John rests the back of his head against a protruding collar bone, and it just feels lovely.

“This is nice.” He murmurs, closing his eyes. A sponge comes up to gently wash his chest, circling lower and lower... The last thing John sees are Sherlock's long toes peeking through the surface of the soapy bathwater.

...

“John... John! The water is getting cold and I can't feel my posterior anymore.”

John jerks awake, hitting Sherlock in the ribs with his elbow as he sits up straight.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry. I... I must have dozed off.” John is still drowsy, despite the icy water sloshing around his midriff. The skin on his fingers is wrinkled like a washer-woman's.

“You snored.” Sherlock sounds both accusatory and enchanted. “Come on, lets get out and into bed.”

John's too dazed to blush anymore.

\----------

It's been a while since he's been with a man in a proper bed. Over the past few years, it has been frantic groping down dark alleys or behind bushes in parks. John doesn't do cottaging; it's too dangerous. As are shared hotel rooms.

Sherlock is beautiful; miles of pale soft skin with hard muscles beneath. John looks his fill, almost overwhelmed by the visual sensation splayed out in front of him. Sherlock is almost as white as his sheets. The only spots of colour as he reclines onto the pillows and stretches are his mop of dark curls and his red lips. His cock is already half-hard, resting in a nest of dark wiry hair between his long legs. John feels his own cock twitch in excitement.

Sherlock looks up at him from hazy silver eyes, grabbing the headboard and invitingly spreading his lean thighs.

“You don't waste time, do you?” John asks, his voice rough.

“We don't have any time to waste, as you told me earlier. There's Vaseline in the drawer of the bedside cabinet.”

John's head is spinning. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I put it there.” 

That's totally not what John had meant.

He hasn't done this often. He believes there should be trust between two partners before taking this particular step, a trust that can't be established between two strangers in a grimy darkened alleyway.

The other reason John has only very rarely engaged in this sort of activity is that groping, frotting and even snogging another bloke can be attributed to a base need for human touch and contact, just two bodies rubbing against each other, seeking friction. One can still retain the impression that it's not mandatory for the other participant to be male. It could be anybody, or so John told himself for a long time during which he avoided to come to terms with his predilections. But anal intercourse makes those predilections utterly undeniable. It's sodomy. It's buggery. It's what gets you into prison for a very long time.

And yet, the gorgeous man in front of him shamelessly bares himself, drawing back his knees and lifting his hips to expose his tight, dark-pink hole.

John actually feels his blood surge towards his groin as he's getting hard. His cock is swelling visibly, the foreskin already retreating until his glistening slit peeks out almost cheekily.

Sherlock licks his lips lewdly before shuffling further back and leaning up on his elbows. “Or do you want me to continue where we left of first?”

John's knees go week and he has to extent one hand to the bedside cabinet to steady himself.

“Would you?” He rasps.

“Oh yes. I loved your taste.”

John has to cover his eyes with his free hand as Sherlock slides down from his bed and onto his knees on the floor boards in front of him.

“Look at me.” His breath fans over John's heated groin, making him shiver.

“If I do this will be over embarrassingly quick.” John huffs.

Sherlock chuckles. “Fair enough...”

It's the last thing he says for a while.

First, it's just the tip of his tongue, lapping at John's wet slit. John groans as his shaft gets impossible harder. Eventually, when he's teased John enough, precome oozing from his tip, Sherlock closes his lovely lips around the glans and starts to suck ever so lightly. John grabs the night-stand harder, and finally removes his hand from his brow to bite down on his fist to prevent himself from moaning and pushing all the way into Sherlock's greedy mouth.

Sherlock takes his time, swirling his talented tongue round and round the crown of John's cock until John can't contain himself any longer. He grabs Sherlock's still damp curls and shoves his cock into that tight, moist heat until it bumps against the back of Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock makes a choking sound as he tries to swallow around the fat cock mercilessly invading him, but instead of struggling against John's forceful grip, he opens his throat even wider, swallowing, taking even more until his hawklike nose is buried in John's dishwasher blond pubes.

“Oh god...” John sighs, and starts to rock forward on the balls of his feet. Sherlock 's large hands grab the back of his thighs like a vice, surely leaving bruises. He hums with pleasure, and suddenly John can feel his balls drawing up against his body. He jerks Sherlock's head back, even ripping some follicles out with his powerful move. Sherlock gasps in response, a deep, animalistic sound emanating from his throat.

His lips are swollen, saliva glistening on his chin. His pupils are so wide that his eyes seem almost black.

John abandons all restraint and drags him back onto the bed by his hair, manhandling the lithe body onto its back, decidedly shoving Sherlock's knees up to his shoulders. He fumbles a little with the drawer, blindly emptying its content onto the floor while the hand not busy holding Sherlock down by his curls scrambles until it finds the Vaseline container.

Sherlock spreads himself a little wider, grabbing the backs of his knees, and John plunges two slick fingers deep inside him.

A sharp sound falls from Sherlock's lips. John looks down, searching for signs of discomfort.

“Keep going.” Sherlock growls. “Don't you dare to stop.”

John's not intending to.

The preparation is cursory at best, but John knows that he'll come all over Sherlock's arse any minute if he doesn't get inside him NOW. His cock is still wet from Sherlock's mouth, precome dribbling copiously down the shaft. This will have to do.

It's so tight that John forgets to breath. His eyes want to flutter shut but he forces them open to watch his cock breach Sherlock's by now dark-red rim, sliding smoothly inside him until John's hips come flush with those lovely round arse cheeks.

Sherlock sighs with pleasure. “God, yes...” His eyes are squeezed shut, his curls a tousled black halo framing his slack face. He looks like a fallen angel, utterly debauched yet pure and innocent at the same time.

Usually, John thinks of this particular act as dirty and filthy. But looking at the man below him, at his open desire and wanton display of lust and enjoyment, he realises that there's no need to feel guilty. What they are doing here might be raw and unconventional, but it's neither unnatural nor dirty.

Something feeling this good simply can't be bad, and if it's against the law then perhaps the law is wrong.

John banishes those serious thoughts as he starts to move, tentatively at first, but soon his thrusts become bolder, harder, deeper. Sherlock roars beneath him, cheering him on, his deep voice filling the room, the only other sound the slapping from sweaty flesh on flesh. If John had any capacity left, he would worry about the noise. But at the moment he can't be arsed.

Especially not when Sherlock hooks his long legs around John's waist and pushes up onto his lap, grabbing the headboard again to get more leverage. This changes the angle John pounds inside him, and suddenly, Sherlock almost arches off the bed, his spine curving as if he's having a seizure.

“Do that again.” He pants, and John obliges, snapping his hips in short, shallow thrusts. Sherlock writhes beneath him, throwing his head from side to side.

John's hands have been holding him in place at his hips, his thumbs digging in the soft, almost translucent skin below protruding hip bones. But now his grip starts to slip on the damp skin, slick with sweat. Sherlock's hard cock is leaking copiously onto his concave, quivering belly, his dark pubic hair glistening with his own fluids. The flushed head of his cock is fully engorged and dark red, like the hole John is pounding so hard.

“Touch me.” Sherlock almost screams after his next insistent thrust, and that's when John looses it completely. He wraps one hand around Sherlock throbbing cock while he fucks into him hard, fast and deep, jerking him off clumsily yet efficiently as it seem, for suddenly, the muscles around John's cocks clench and spasm. The next moment, Sherlock comes all over John's fingers stroking his pulsing shaft, his breath ragged as he thrashes in the sheets.

John follows suit, burying himself inside Sherlock, pushing as far in as possible, spilling hot, thick come inside the wrecked, trembling body in front of him.

Afterwards, there's a lot of heavy breathing as they slowly entangle their weak limbs. John lies down next to Sherlock, who stretches and winces slightly.

“Sorry.” John mumbles, turning on his side, brushing a wayward curl out of Sherlock's reddened face.

“Don't be ridiculous.” The man next to him gasps, sounding almost imperious despite having been thoroughly buggered. “Is that my come on your hand?”

John quickly removes his sticky fingers from Sherlock's hair, wiping them on the rumpled sheets for a perfunctory clean-up, and giggles.

“Sorry again.” He sighs, pressing his lips against Sherlock's temple where he can see his pulse hammer out a fast staccato.

Instead of showing disgust or indignation, however, Sherlock starts to chuckle as well.

“Oh, dear...” He snorts, pulling the duvet up over the two of them.

“You alright?” John asks, in an attempt to sober up a bit and acting like a considerate lover.

“Yes.” Sherlock purrs, curling around him like an overlarge cat, resting his head on John's still heaving chest. “And you?”

“Yes.” John is surprised how true this short statement rings. All of this feels surprisingly, utterly, absolutely, frighteningly right.

“Don't ever leave.” Sherlock whispers, sounding suddenly fierce as he captures John's mouth in a somewhat shy yet totally lewd kiss.

“But we don't know a thing about each other.” John pants as he's able to talk again, when the invading, insisting tongue that's been massaging his for a good while finally withdraws.

At that, Sherlock cocks his head and looks at him with a mixture of seriousness and exaltation. “You are a doctor at Bart's hospital with one estranged brother, who succumbed to alcoholism a few years back. You wanted to enlist in the army, but had to take care of your elderly father, and then were deemed more useful here at home after the war broke out. You have come to terms with your sexual orientation, but it took you a while. You still prefer anonymous encounters with strangers. This will have to stop, by the way. I don't share. There's a history of mental illness and substance abuse running through your fathers family, and for a while you feared that you might suffer from some form of sexual perversion or degeneration, but in the end you accepted who you are. I appreciate that. Yet you even tried to court a woman a few years back, but in the end she found out about your true inclinations and ended the relationship. You lived in fear for a while that she might report you to the authorities, until she emigrated to Australia shortly before the war broke out. You don't drink, you don't smoke, and you don't go to church. At the moment, you live in somewhat squalid accommodation in Crouch End, renting a small room from an elderly widow who tries to make advances to you when she has had one sherry too many. You are disgusted by that, but can't disclose the true nature of your feelings. You are rather conservative in many views, old-fashioned and polite, but also quite reckless and daring. For me, that's enough to know for a start. But I'm sure I will find out more fascinating things about you in the future.”

John stares at the man crouching above him, speechless. His eyes are gleaming with fond mirth, and there's some colour fawning over his cheeks that doesn't result from their ferocious coupling.

“How...? Well, never mind... that was amazing.” John pants. He knows he should be a little unsettled, but he's just mesmerised. Before he can say anything more, however, his mouth is claimed again.

Eventually, they get up around noon, and make themselves some tea and sandwiches, consisting of brown bread and cheese. Sherlock has donned his rather flamboyant dressing gown again, while John is wrapped in a sheet.

“How come you have not been conscripted? A man your age. Or are you on leave?” Somehow, though, John doubts that.

A shadow crosses Sherlock's face. He puts the sandwich he's only nibbled at anyway aside and sits up a little straighter. After his deduction earlier which John took in stride, he deserves to know the truth.

“I got dishonourably discharged.” Sherlock states plainly.

“On what grounds?” John asks, frowning.

“What do you think? Gross indecency, of course.”

John swallows. “What? That could have got you court martialled. You could have been put up against a wall, facing a firing squad.” His hands start to shake and he has to set his cup down onto its saucer.

Sherlock smiles a dark, defiant smile. “I've got relatives in high places. My family intervened. It was all hushed up but I had to leave the army nonetheless.”

“What happened?”

Sherlock is quiet for so long that John thinks he might have overstepped. Eventually, however, he starts to speak again.

“My family was against me enlisting. Because of my... deviant disposition, as my father put it. There had been some minor scandals involving me and boys since back at school, resulting in extensive corporal punishment and frequent change of the institutions I was carted off to. Luckily, when I eventually enrolled in Cambridge, no one gave a toss. Those were... very happy times in retrospect.” He falls silent again, the smile on his face turning sad. “My brother became a pencil pusher in Whitehall. That's his way of doing his bid. But I wanted something else, more. I wanted to make a difference, not just sit around studying chemistry while the fascist scum overran Europe and destroyed everything I thought precious and beautiful. So I signed up late in 1939. God, it was so boring. Nothing happened, we were just shouted at and drilled day in day out, somewhere up in Yorkshire.” He looks suddenly grim. “I was so naïve. We were just a bunch of eager kids. I thought war and fighting were something glorious... I got so excited when we eventually were shipped over to France. And then I ended up in Dunkirk, you know. We were all waiting for the evacuation, but it took time. The Germans closed in on us. To their snipers we were easy prey on the vast beaches. We tried to hide as best we could. Food was short, as was water. We had wounded comrades around us, screaming for their mothers, dying in our arms. It was hell.” 

John has heard similar accounts and nods in understanding.

“One night, another young private and I were send on patrol. When we approached a largely destroyed house, we got under fire. We thought we would die there. When the Germans eventually ceased firing, we just... I don't even think he was especially inclined towards men, but if you'd just been at death's door and back... it might just have been the adrenaline rush. Anyway, it got pretty heated pretty quickly, which led to us being discovered by a search team with our trousers down round our ankles.”

John swallows, tea and toast forgotten. Sherlock has to take a sip, however, to be able to continue.

“We were both put in handcuffs and chained in some dark cellar. He blamed me, and our commander wanted to believe him. But suddenly, the rescue ships arrived. Mind, I was one of the last to get out, together with other comrades who had apparently violated regulations. Back in London, my brother pulled some strings. As both my commander and the other man involved had drowned during the evacuation, the most important witness had perished. Still, I had to leave the army.” He stares down into his lap. “It shouldn't matter, you know. I wasn't a coward or anything. I did my duty. But my father... my father accused me of lacking bravery, you know. He said to my face that if I were an honourable man I'd do the right thing and kill myself. That was the last time he spoke to me.”

“What have you been doing since?” John asks carefully, his voice hoarse with shock and anger.

Sherlock sighs. “My brother found some... suitable work for me. And I was in no position to refuse, hence he literally saved my neck. I'd like to tell you more but then I'll have to kill you afterwards. Unless you've signed the OSA.” Sherlock cracks a somewhat acerbic smile.

John shakes his head. “No, I... I'm so sorry, Sherlock.” He slowly gets up and walks over to the other man, slumped over in his chair, staring at the floor. John reaches out and slowly takes one of his balled fists between his palms and smooths the white knuckles until Sherlock somewhat relaxes, burying his face in the soft linen covering John's belly.

“You know...” John smiles down at the crown of dark hair. “There might be freedom in being out like this. You have nothing to loose anymore. You don't have to hide any longer.”

Sherlock's hot breath huffs against John's skin through the thin fabric as he snorts a laugh. “It's still illegal, the way I am. You think I make a habit out of picking up strangers, giving them my name and address. To seduce them?”

“Do you?”

Sherlock is looking up at him from red-rimmed eyes and is about to say something in reply. But his words are drowned out by sirens suddenly screaming, their high-pitched tune cutting sharply through the sounds of everyday life in London. Another attack. The Germans are coming by day and night now in an attempt to spread terror and undermine morals.

John looks at both of them. They are in no way attired to seek refuge in a public shelter. If they'd get caught in their present state of undress, together, they'll sure as hell end up in custody.

Sherlock continues to stare up at him, his gaze unwavering. John knows that it's his decision, and that his next step will be vital to determine if they'll stand a chance in the future.

“Let me take you back to bed.” He pulls Sherlock onto his feet and leads him back into the bedroom.

They make love while around them bombs fall from the sky, burning down their world. Yet here, though the world explodes, these two survive...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this just happened. I'm aware that there might be some historic inaccuracies occurring in the above chapter, but please show some forbearance, as this is still mostly pwp.
> 
> I actually may continue this...


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock live their summer of love despite their world exploding, until reality intrudes, brutally tearing them apart.

John had to reach the age of 32 to live the summer of his life. Despite bombs raining down on the capital, despite rationing, despite his work load increasing with more and more casualties… he’s never been so happy. No, happy isn’t the adequate word for how he feels – exhilarated, sanguine, vibrant; those are much better terms to describe his state.

All because of Sherlock Holmes.

John hardly ever stays at his dingy lodgings anymore. Most of his time he spends at Baker Street. He’s pretty sure that Sherlock’s landlady knows that something is going on between them, but she just smiles at him and slips him pastries, made with real butter and loads of sugar. In return, he looks after her hip, pinching painkillers from the hospital’s pharmacy.

John and Sherlock share a bed as often as possible with their odd schedules. John has to work longer and longer shifts – both day and night – and Sherlock's comings and goings are even more unpredictable. Yet whenever they meet under one roof, it doesn't take long for them to get rid of their clothes and tumble into each other's arms. 

It's like magnetism, the way they are drawn to each other, as if by gravitational force. Or rather, John thinks, like the moth is drawn to the flame; even risking getting burned doesn't prevent it from circling closer and closer. Because what they are doing is dangerous on many levels. It's not only the law that threatens them with draconian punishment, it's the public rejection they have to fear as well. Losing their jobs, their flats, their friends, their families are certain consequences if they are ever found out. Sherlock has already been through this once and despite his general disregard for social customs and civilities he doesn't seem too keen to repeat his experiences.

Nevertheless, they simply can't keep their hands and mouths off each other. They can't help it. Especially John has hidden away his desires for so long that now, when allowed to let them roam freely, it's almost too much, nearly overwhelming him with their intensity. Luckily, Sherlock is equally eager – and even more experienced than John initially thought. He doesn't dare to ask about Sherlock's past – not after the painful reveals after their first time together – but he's sure that Sherlock has had his fair share of sexual encounters, despite being five years younger than John.

He's definitely not shy. Sherlock has a beautiful body, and he knows it. He revels in showing off both his mental as well as his physical advantages, and John doesn't mind at all. Sherlock usually lounges about the flat in next to nothing, dressed only in a silken dressing gown or a sheet, which gives John free access to his body anytime he wants. And oh, how much he wants.

Sherlock never turns him down. He never complains or shies away. On the contrary, he's easily aroused and very adventurous, always coming up with new ideas to pleasure John, or for John to make love to him. When he stuck his tongue up John's behind for the first time, John nearly suffered a heart attack before coming more violently than ever before. Despite the utter shame he'd felt about this... practice, it stayed and was often repeated.

In addition, he's allowed and even encouraged to put other things up Sherlock's lovely bottom as well: not just his cock and fingers, but wooden spoons, candles, the wooden grip of a screwdriver. John finds those games both a little disturbing and very arousing. Sherlock even persuaded him to nick a speculum from the hospital. Both their ensuing orgasms after inserting the gleaming metal into Sherlock's anus to spread him slowly open had been so violent that they nearly passed out.

Because Sherlock seems to clearly enjoy playtime, John pushes the thought what this says about himself aside as he goes willingly along with it. He even discovers that he's a little into spanking and getting tied up – things Sherlock, on the other hand, can't stand when done to himself. He regards any form of restrains as unbearable control. Suffering pain does nothing for him. But inflicting it, acting dominant... now, that's another thing entirely. John enjoys Sherlock's firm hand and strict discipline. The man even owns a riding crop...

Yet, after all those hazy weeks of summer, Sherlock is still a marvel to John. His breath-taking beauty sends John reeling whenever he sets eyes on him. The sunlight exposes brunette streaks in his silky black curls. His pale skin is almost translucent, pulled taught over fine bones and lean muscles. Sherlock's eyes are a peculiar silvery grey-green John has yet to get tired of gazing into. And his voice... John can listen to Sherlock's deep, velvety baritone for hours, watching his expressive pink lips with rapt attention (and if he evokes images of those lips stretched around his cock, or shining wet and open, panting his name, well, John is just human, after all). That this otherworldly, fascinating, gorguous man wants him – John H. Watson, a doctor of medium height, mediocre income, questionable taste and quite insubstantial funds – is a mystery to John, but he's wise enough not to question his luck too thoroughly.

But even the most devoted lovebirds have to leave their nest from time to time. When they escape the flat in their rare free time, they undertake strolls through London. Sherlock shows John places and sites he's neither ever heard of nor imagined existed. From the worst East End slums to the grand houses in Belgravia, Sherlock seems to know every back alley, every mews, every subway, every shortcut in the capital. Turning and watching Sherlock's profile as he explains the history of the city makes John’s heart skip a beat: he's immersed in his own world, his alabaster cheeks going pink with excitement.

John's favourite spot is a stretch by the Thames down at Chiswick, where he can almost imagine how London must have looked one hundred years ago. It feels like travelling back in time to a more peaceful era, as if one suddenly had left the busy metropolis behind and landed in a tranquil English village instead. There's a row of old pubs ,by the waterside, and at the end of their long walks they often sit in front of them – watching the tide of the river ebb and flow as the sun either rises or sets, gazing out over the water, relishing the quiet atmosphere. 

On the hotter days, they lie idly on the few still existing patches of lawn in Regent’s Park, beneath the last old trees that didn't succumb to the frequent air raids or were cut down to make room to 'dig for victory'. But even when staying in the shades, Sherlock still gets freckles all over the back of his nose, which he hates but John finds very attractive. He proves it by yanking Sherlock into one of the cubicles in the public toilet near the boating lake, pressing him against the tiled wall and snogging him almost senseless.

Waking up next to this almost ethereal man amazes John every time it happens. Sherlock looks so young and innocent, vulnerable even, with his hair dishevelled and his features softened by sleep. For all his frank scorn he shows in public towards other people, with John he's gentle, open, kind and very funny. That John is allowed to see this side Sherlock usually carefully hides away makes him proud. He swears to himself to never betray Sherlock's trust.

It’s a hot, dry summer, and Sherlock often goes out in just his shirtsleeves. He doesn’t care if passers-by think this inappropriate. “Make mend and do,” he says, grinning. John smiles back at him, their hands, arms and shoulders lightly brushing as they walk side by side. Sherlock’s pale forearms and neck acquire a healthy tan, and John loses himself in admiring the lines dividing Sherlock’s skin in fairer and darker parts when he has him naked in bed.

But the blue, cloudless sky brings not only summer's delights this year. The bright weather also guarantees a clear view, and thus enables the German Luftwaffe to fly more and more frequent attacks. The sirens blare day and night. John often has to work double shifts, as nearly all male doctors have been conscripted into the Army, Navy, or RAF. A few months ago, John would have envied them for being allowed to fight for King and country. Now, the idea of parting with Sherlock is unbearable.

Every time John approaches Baker Street after an air raid, he fears the worst: being greeted by a pile of smouldering bricks and rubble, dead people and torn off limbs strewn all over the street like rag dolls, the air filled with sobbing and screaming and the smell of phosphor. He can feel his chest and throat tighten before rounding the last corner, and he always sighs in relieve when he discovers that the house is still standing, tall and firm.

But it's not just John's workload that is getting increasingly erratic. He never knows when Sherlock might be at home. Sometimes, he gets up in the middle of the night, sneaking silently away when he thinks John's fast asleep. Or he receives a telegram mid-morning and leaves in a hurry, often not returning for days. John is paralysed with fear when he doesn't know where Sherlock is when the bombs start to fall, with no means to contact him and make sure he's safe. All he can do is burying himself in his own work to stop fretting over his lover's fate.

John still has no idea what exactly Sherlock is doing at Smithfield Market, but has sensed by now that it must be some sort of intelligence work. He knows better than to torment the man with questions. John has accepted that Sherlock is not at liberty to tell him anything, and quickly discovers that he gets annoyed if he has to state this repeatedly.

That’s not the only thing John discovers, however, during those first love-stricken (or rather sex-addled) weeks of their affair. Sherlock shows some surprisingly favourable characteristics: he knows a lot of things about such diverse subjects as poisons, Asian martial arts, dogs, fashion, and music. He's a keen sportsman, despite his sometimes rather phlegmatic temperament, and actively engages in fencing and boxing. He's also an accomplished violinist, John learns. He knows London like the back of his own hand. And his circle of acquaintances is... colourful, to say the least, encompassing counts as well as beggars, respectable widows, shifty elements of the demi-monde, flamboyant artists and poor orphans alike. He doesn't distinguish by rank or title, gender or race, but treats those useful to him, intelligent and bright, with some kind of brusque courtesy, regardless of their breed or birth, while people he deems boring, useless or stupid have to suffer his ill temper.

And, oh boy, Sherlock's dark moods are epic! Seeing the usually already high-strung man in an anguished frenzy for the first time – yelling, pacing, pulling his hair until almost yanking it out with its roots – had at first truly frightened John. As a doctor, he knows about all kinds of mental degeneration and psychopathies, but it's a different thing to experience signs of these conditions in the man he loves and desires. It's unsettling in the extreme – as is Sherlock's method of treating those manic fits with morphine and cocaine. John has no idea where Sherlock obtains the drugs in these dire times, but regarding his eclectic, bohemian circle, John is sure that he could get hold of almost anything he wants.

The first time John catches Sherlock fiddling with an epidermic, they have a violent row, which ends with Sherlock sobbing at John's feet, begging him to stay while at the same time refusing to give up his habit. It's a fight in which John still isn't sure which side to take.

As a concession to the heat, Sherlock injects the solution in his femoral vein or even the external iliac vein as not to show off the marks on his often bare arms. John hates seeing the pin pricks on his pale skin, especially when they make love, and hates even more what the drugs might do to Sherlock, his fine body and brilliant mind, but he has no means to stop him. He can't leave.

And he can't help Sherlock either when he gets frustrated or bored or impatient – and admitting that hurts even more then witnessing those states in the first place. All John can do is stay, supply tea, toast and cigarettes, and hope for the bout of sorrow or anger or... whatever to pass.

Not everything is perfect. But it's as close as possible, and certainly the best and most intimate affair John has ever had with the most fascinating man he's ever met. As late summer slowly merges into early autumn, they settle in a trusting, stable and honest relationship.

Yet it isn't meant to last.

The reverie they've lost themselves in comes to a grinding halt one Wednesday evening in September. The days are already getting shorter and a little chilly, a relieve after the summer's heat. It's actually a bit like their first encounter in spring, only this time, John's shift is over and he meets Sherlock on his way home – or rather, to Baker Street. Sherlock has managed to slip away from whatever he's doing deep down in the market's vaults to have a cigarette between the borded-up stalls.

When John approaches him, a wild grin on his face, Sherlock pulls him over into a dark corner to ravish him. John follows willingly, excited and aroused by the danger of getting off in such a public place. He leans against a metal shutter in the gloomy twilight while Sherlock sinks gracefully onto his knees and sets to work on his fly.

The policeman catches them a few minutes later, with John's cock in Sherlock's mouth and John's hands in Sherlock's hair. There is no mistaking of what they've both been up to, and not even Sherlock can talk them out of being arrested and getting carted off to Wood Street police station.

John knows he should feel ashamed, sitting handcuffed in the back of a black police car – but he doesn't. Instead, he feels almost proud, sitting next to his the man he loves, who doesn't seem fazed by what is happening. Sherlock holds his head high and does neither whine nor plead. He looks the bobby straight in the eye and meets his open contempt with a sneer. Not the wisest move, as it turns out, for it earns him a rather brutal shove when manhandled a little too violently into the font of the vehicle. But it once again proves to John that Sherlock is not a coward.

Sherlock's been through all of what is coming for them before and survived. This gives John the strength he needs to collect himself. And it might not be the last time this is happening to them either. Ss things stand, the law is against them, and the authorities have every right to arrest and punish them.

John knows that Sherlock is fed up and tired with being forced to hide, to pretend. Other people are allowed to hold hands and kiss in public, are allowed to marry and set up a home together. Why can't they? Sudden anger wells up inside John as he now is confronted with the unfairness of it all. They love each other probably more than a normal couple does. Yet their love is forbidden, deemed dirty and sick, a perversion, an abnormality of nature.

John balls his shackled fists and takes a few deep breaths. When Sherlock turns towards him, looking somewhat worried, John gives a minute shake of his head and takes Sherlock's left hand into his right, squeezing it firmly. He will support him and stand by him – even if it turns out to be his downfall. Love shouldn't be anything anyone should be ashamed of.

When they arrive at the police station, however, John's bravery starts to falter. They are paraded around for the other officers delight, who taunt them, calling them nancy boys and poofters, shirtlifters and sissies. John tries to copy Sherlock, who walks ramrod straight and doesn't look neither left nor right, seeming deaf to the insults hurled at them. But John sees his muscles tense, sees the tightness around Sherlock's eyes and knows that he has trouble to preserve his cool facade.

Not only are their fingerprints taken, but they are also submitted to a humiliating examination, undertaken by a police surgeon. They have to undress and bend over so the doctor can feel them up, part their cheeks, pet their testicles. He even tries to insert one finger into John's anus, upon which John nearly punches his colleague and has to be detained by another officer, who doesn't have to be told twice to use his truncheon on that crazy faggot.

Sherlock suffers through all of this with an air of dignified aloofness, as if nothing can touch, embarrass or hurt him. Yet when the doctor points out the track marks on his legs, he briefly closes his eyes and swallows audibly. They actually think he's a prostitute and charge him with soliciting as well.

They are separated afterwards and put in different interview rooms. The last look John gets of Sherlock is an acerbic grin directed at one of the officers before he's handcuffed again and rather forcefully removed from the room.

“I see you soon.” Sherlock promises in John's direction, and the policemen laugh, a dirty low chuckle that makes bile rise in John's throat. For the first time this evening, he's starting to get truly afraid. This is not a joke, as surreal as the situation may seem. This is serious business. Yet John has no idea how serious.

Because he won't set eyes on Sherlock Holmes again for the next two years.

\----------

Sherlock ignores the detective (divorced because he used to beat up his wife, unfit for military service due to a lame leg and a severe drinking habit, fancies very young girls despite his erectile dysfunction) who's asking him derogatory questions as an excuse for a formal police interview. He seems more interested in hurling slurs at Sherlock than in establishing the facts that led to his arrest and becomes rather frustrated and shouty when Sherlock doesn't rise to the bait. Sherlock tunes him out as best he can, thinking instead about the new violin sonata he's practising (which John likes) and an experiment on mould cultures he likes to pursue (which John dislikes). 

He can't help it, his thoughts inevinatbly wander to John. At first, he'd seemed surprisingly calm, until the medical examination had truly unsettled him. Being humiliated by a member of his own profession had seemed hard to cope with. Sherlock hopes John won't get carried away again by his anger. It's no use, Sherlock knows. Better just take it without allowing them to get to you.

Eventually, the boring, in his slander rather predictable detective is interrupted by the arrival of another authoritarian figure. Sherlock sighs, not only inwardly, as the policeman jumps to his feet and almost salutes, despite the man entering wearing civilian clothes (bespoke, of course, even when clothes can only be obtained on coupons, at least for mere mortals).

There's a somewhat tense exchange until, eventually, the officer leaves.

Sherlock is alone with his brother.

“Again, Sherlock? I was called away from a vital meeting at the War Office. Do you have any idea...?” Mycroft interrupts himself, and now it's his turn to sigh heavily. “No, of course, you don't.”

“Good evening, Mycroft. Be assured, I didn't ask for you.”

“No, that was your supervisor at that... facility you are working. He was informed by the police of your arrest and thought it wise to inform me.”

“And here you are.” Sherlock's smile is icy.

“Listen, brother dear, this is not the first time you came to the attention of the authorities for this kind of offence. I can't protect you infinitely.”

“I never asked you to.”

“Would you rather want to go to prison?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I don't care.” 

“Yes, you do. At least you care for your doctor.”

Sherlock suddenly sits up, his body tense and alert. “I take full responsibility of what happened. I seduced him. He's blameless, utterly respectable, just corrupted by me...”

“Stop it.” Mycroft blinks, staring down at the worn linoleum. “I'll do what I can, but I fear my hands are tied in this matter.”

The two brothers exchange a serious gaze. Sherlock frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“You'll both be held here overnight. I'm trying to get Doctor Watson off the charges, to avoid a public scandal, but I'm not so confident with you. I need something to work with here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's head is spinning, he's got trouble concentrating. John! He can't allow for John to suffer, to lose his job, his reputation. It's too important to him. He has to protect him at all costs. Oh, those stupid, stupid feelings!

“How about I'd agree to the mission you were talking about lately?” Sherlock offers hesitantly.

“That might help you both.” Mycroft mumbles.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Six months, you said?”

“Approximately.”

Sherlock is silent for a full minute before he speaks again. His voice is firm when he finally says: “Very well, I'm on board.”

Mycroft gives a curt nod, yet relieve is showing in his posture. “I'll talk to the Prime Minister. I’m sure, after the Venlo incident, he’ll understand the necessity to rebuilt our network on the continent with the most suitable people.”

And with that, his brother is gone. Sherlock has a bitter taste in his mouth, but what other option did he have? Everybody has to sacrifice something during a war. He won't be an exemption.

\----------

Instead of in a filthy cell, as John had expected, he finds himself in a shabby office. His back still hurts where the truncheon has hit him, but otherwise he has regained his composure. But the uncertainty of his situation starts to get to him. His head hurts, and his hands are shaking.

The man who eventually enters isn't a police officer, that much is clear. Yet the bobby dozing in the corner jumps to his feet anyway before shuffling off.

John eyes the stranger suspiciously. He's tall and lean, with brunette hair, wearing an immaculate if a little old-fashioned three piece suit made of heavy grey wool. It's been some time since John has seen fabric of such quality.

“Doctor Watson, my name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm Sherlock's elder brother.” John feels outrage seer deep inside him. He remembers how Sherlock was treated by his family, and the instant dislike he has taken to the man opposite him intensifies.

The elder Holmes seems to sense that and smiles. “Before you judge me, please listen. I'm neither a prude nor am I prejudiced. I've known my brother all his life, being seven years his senior. Therefore, I was always aware of his orientation. Believe me when I say I don't mind at all. Who my brother takes to bed is none of my business.” John wants to say something but a small gesture from Sherlock's brother quiets him. “If he'd just be a little more discreet. You are aware of what happened at Dunkirk?”

John can only nod. White hot anger flares up inside his gut as he remembers how broken Sherlock had sounded when telling him about it.

“Well, and now this.” Mycroft Holmes waves his hand in a gesture encompassing John, the whole room, the police station and maybe London in general. “He's a repeat offender now. That complicates matters.”

“Could you cut the chase and come to the point?” John asks. He's getting a little annoyed.

“Why? Are you in a hurry?” Mycroft Holmes frowns, looking suddenly so very much like Sherlock that it hurts.

“I’m just a wee bit fed up. I love him. He loves me. I don't understand how this is anyone's business but our own.” John says. He's aware that he sounds way more agitated than he intended.

“Oh, what a tender world that would be.” Mycroft smiles a thin smile. “Unfortunately, real life is much harsher. Sherlock will undoubtedly go to prison for his offence this time, perhaps for a rather long stretch. You will get implicated as well. Are you prepared for this? T face a court and inevitable public exposure and humiliation?”

“As much as possible.” John growls.

“Such a waste.” Mycroft sighs. “Neither Sherlock nor you are of any use in a prison. Now, field work, on the other hand...”

“What do you want? Who are you?” John leans forward in his seat.

“I want my brother safe. I want his exceptional talents put to good use. I want this horrid war to end sooner rather than later.”

“Well, then we are on the same page.” John leans back. “What is it that you propose?”

Mycroft gives John a stern look, seizing him up. The outcome seems favourable, for he continues. “I occupy a minor position in the British government. In that capacity, I need Sherlock's participation in a top secret operation. He has already agreed to partake. That will get him off the hook. But you have to offer something as well. The police can't just drop the charges.” Sherlock’s brother takes out a pocket watch and snaps it open as if to look up the time. “I’ve learned that you wanted to take active duty. Well, now's your chance, Doctor Watson. But you have to leave immediately. Your ship sails in three hours. If you volunteer, I'm pretty sure that I can sort this mess out.”

John is silent for a long time. “Why? Why do you have to get me out of the way?”

Mycroft's gaze sharpens, then shifts. “My brother won't leave London for as long as you are here. Therefore, I have to get you out of the country, so he will eventually cooperate. Believe me, the Army is much more preferable to a stretch in prison for gross indecency. You'll be a free man with no criminal record. Your career might even flourish. You get to do what you always wanted, serve your country, put your talents to good use.”

John nods slowly.

“This country needs my brother. A situation has arisen... it's very important that he works for us.”

John sighs. “Will I be able to write to him?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I'm afraid he'll be operating behind enemy lines. No contact will be possible.”

“For how long?”

“I estimate both your deployments to last six months.” Mycroft says smoothly.

John stares at the ceiling. The beige paint is stained dark yellow from nicotine and flaking where cracks are showing.

“Can I write him a few lines now? To explain...? To say good-bye.” John swallows.

“I give you fifteen minutes, then we'll have to go.”

A few minutes later, a police sergeant unlocks John's handcuffs and hands him a pencil and a piece of paper.

\----------  


_My love, my beautiful, amazing, radiant darling,_  
_Believe me when I say that the last few months have been the best of my life. Since I met you I've felt more alive than ever before. You are the best thing that ever happened to me._  
_Therefore, leaving you hurts._  
_I've learned that we'll have to part for some time. These are dire times, and I imagine that we have to make sacrifices like anybody else. I'm sure this is the right decision. In times like these, private bliss can't be more important than our country's future._  
_Oh, I can actually see you sneering at my overtly patriotic veneer, as you will surely call it. But just imagine Hitler and his lot winning! What do you think people like us will have to suffer then?_  
_I love you. God, I love you so much. And I know you love me as well. This gives me the strength and courage to let you go and do my duty, as you have to do yours. My thoughts are with you. There won't be a day that I'm not thinking about you, about us._  
_I was told that I won't be able to send you letters. But anyway, be assured that I will write to you every day. I promise to deliver all those letters when we'll meet again_  
_We'll survive this, my love._  
_I will never forget you. I love you more than anything in the world. I'll do anything for you, and now, apparently, what I'll have to do for you is to set you free._  
_I'm actually looking forward to my posting. You know I always wanted to join our troops. I promise I'll make you proud._  
_And I promise to stay alive._  
_Please, take care, Sherlock. A world without you in it seems entirely miserable._  
_This turned out way more soppy than intended; therefore, I bring my sorry efforts to an end._  
_All my love_  
_Forever_  
_John_  
_P.s. Can you imagine how much I want to touch you right now, to feel your silky skin, to taste your sweet lips? Oh god, Sherlock, I miss you already. I miss you so much. I'm not sure I can do this._

\----------

“What did you tell him?” Sherlock asks his brother as he lowers John's letter into his lap with shaking fingers. His eyes are suspiciously shiny. Mycroft sincerely hopes his little brother won't start crying. There’s only so much one can deal with at one in the morning.

“Not the truth, obviously.” Mycroft states dryly.

Sherlock huffs out a derisive little laugh. “Obviously...”

“It's for the best, Sherlock. He'll escape prison and gets to follow his calling. When he returns, he'll be a man of good standing.”

“ _If_ he returns...” Sherlock mumbles. “Where is he carted off to, North Africa?”

“I'm not at liberty to say, as you very well know.” Mycroft bows his head. “Of course, the Maghreb would be much preferable to South Asia or India. One hears dreadful things from those part...”

Sherlock stares back down at the paper in his hand. “When do I have to leave?”

“Your boat goes tomorrow night. I'll come around to fetch you at eight.”

\----------

Back at the flat in the early hours of a Thursday morning, the sheets of their shared bed still smell of John. Yet Sherlock notices that some of his clothes and toiletries have gone – his brush, his shaving kit. What's also missing is a snapshot of them both, taken during a day trip to Brighton a few weeks back. John had asked another tourist to take it, a young woman with bright ginger hair, on an outing with another girl in slacks and a man's jacket. They hadn't dared to embrace but had stood close together on the pier, the sea stretching infinitely behind them, Sherlock's hair tousled by the breeze.

It was the only picture that existed of the two of them together.

Well, Sherlock has photographic memory, he doesn't need a cardboard keepsake.

He's to keyed up to sleep. But there's nothing else to do either. Mycroft will provide him with all the essentials, he doesn't need to pack anything. He'll miss this flat, though. His violin. London.

John.

The siren call of morphine is strong during those empty hours, but Sherlock resist, knowing how much John would hate it. He sits in his old, battered chair in the living room and watches the light change, staring into nothing until his brother arrives in the evening.

“First of all, we've to cut your hair.” Mycroft says. Sherlock wrenches the scissors from his fingers to do it himself. As his dark curls, that John so loved to pet and stroke, fall onto the bathroom floor he feels a fleeting sense of loss which he quickly pushes down and rigorously suppresses. It's no use getting sentimental now.

They leave for the South coast an hour later, Sherlock by now dressed in the dark blue uniform and the beret of the Milice Francaise, his head almost shaved, the remaining hair atop of it dyed a reddish blond.

“You really look the part.” Mycroft had said when Sherlock had emerged from the bathroom.

“T'es rien qu'un petit connard.” Was the answer he got.

“Mon dieu, I truly hope your German is better than your French.”

Sherlock leaves England on a small boat bound for France a few hours later. It'll be more than four years before he'll set foot on his native shore again. He'll have changed by then, as will have England. Yet one thing will remain the same: he'll still be hopelessly in love with John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that I'm playing rather losely with historical facts here, apologies. This will, however, continue in the next chapters.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock's notebook 1941-1943_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions some historical figures and events. There'll be footnotes at the end in case you want to know more.

**Sunday:** Bored.

**Monday:** Bored.

**Tuesday:** BORED!!!

**Wednesday:** What kind of war is this? Nothing happens. NOTHING. I'm sitting in this godforsaken chalet in the middle of nowhere, waiting to be carted off to another godforsaken chalet in the middle of nowhere a little closer to the German heartland. I'm surrounded by imbeciles – obviously, as they are quislings, an exceptionally nasty species – who try to be even more radical in expressing their dumb views than the Nazis themselves. I'm already sick of it.

**Thursday:** I sincerely hope someone would shoot me.

**Friday:** Anyone?

**Saturday:** As you can see, I was so bored I invented my own shorthand to write this. Should I ever be captured and this little book falls into the wrong hands, they won't be able to decipher it, I'm pretty sure. I miss you. Fiercely. I hope you are well, wherever you might be.

**Sunday:** You took the picture from Brighton. Those were the very best of times, weren't there? Now it seems a lifetime ago, yet it was only in June. I'm miserable. At least the French have an infinite supply of cigarettes. And as I have to blend in, I smoke like a chimney. You would hate it.

**Monday:** I lay awake all night, thinking about you. I started to touch myself but felt ashamed afterwards. Still miserable.

**Tuesday:** The roof of this dilapidated hut is leaking. Everything is wet and smells. My French _sergent_ doesn't stop talking. I've already plotted fourteen ways to kill him. If he doesn't shut up, I might be forced to put into practice.

**Sunday:** As you might guess, something finally happened. We moved. I'm in Belgium now. Looking for my contact proves to be rather difficult.

**Wednesday:** Contact dead.

**Sunday:** No new developments. No news from home.

**Tuesday:** Sill nothing. It's maddening.

**Saturday:** That was a close call. On my way to The Hague now.

**Sunday:** I'm not feeling too well. Could need you now. I miss you so much...

**Monday:** Fever. Wound got infected. In pain.

**Tuesday:** Still not better. Dreamt of home, of you. I don't dare to sleep hence I might start to blab. I think I’m hallucinating.

**Wednesday:** I thought I saw you walking by when I looked out of the window, down in the street. But that's impossible. I know. Still..

**Thursday:** I want to die.

**Friday:** A little better. Fever down, but wound still festering.

**Sunday:** Wednesday: Much better. The room I'm in is stuffy, no window, but it's warm and dry and safe. I can hardly move. I miss you. I think about you constantly. I might even have asked for you in my agony, for the doctor wanted to know who John is. I couldn't tell him, could I?

_One week later..._

**Saturday:** I'm now dressed in a black SS-Hauptsturmführer uniform. It's frighteningly fitting. I look rather dashing. The woman hiding me gasped in shock when she saw me. I'll report to my unit on Monday. Wish me luck.

**Sunday:** I hate this war. I hate what I'm doing here. I want to be with you. Is that too much to ask?

**Tuesday:** All went well. I go by the name of Joachim Lenz now, wounded in action and transferred to the BdS. Before the war, I allegedly visited England regularly. My gait helps adding credibility to my role. It's strange, speaking German all the time. It feels alien, those words coming out of my mouth. I miss you.

**Sunday:** The week was hell. I have to compile lists of people. I don't want to do this! I tried to act clumsy, losing papers, messing up the index. But I have to be careful. They need to trust me. If they get suspicious all is lost. The things I say... I want to wash my mouth with soap every evening. I hate myself.

**Tuesday:** What is happening to me? What am I becoming? I smoke too much and drink too much and just try to forget, to pass out into a dreamless, drunken stupor.

**Friday:** They are monsters and so am I. How can you love me? How will you ever be able to set eyes on me again? I'm not worth of your affection. I will stain you with my touch.

**Sunday:** I was sick all day. They started to round people up. It's Sunday, so most are at home. It's awful. People are crying in the streets, begging for their children's lives.

**Monday:** I just learned that the woman who hid me a few weeks back was arrested yesterday. There's nothing I can do about it.

**Tuesday:** I hate this war.

**Wednesday:** I hate myself. I can't do this anymore...

_Four weeks later..._

**Tuesday:** Happy New Year, John, wherever you are. To a happier year!

_Four months later..._

**Monday:** I had to stop. Writing it down made it even more real and saved those atrocities I’m forced to partake in for posterity. I don't want to remember. Having to feign and pretend all the time, I fear I'm losing myself. My personality dissolves and is replaced by a repellent stranger. I'm so alone. God, look what a whining, sobbing mess I've become. How are you? I'm starting to forget how you looked, how you smelled, the sound of your voice. I long to hear an English voice, have a decent cup of tea... and you. In our bed. In London. That's all I want.

**Tuesday:** I'm in Hamburg, by the way. I won't go into details, it's too distressing and tedious at the same time. The town was hit by a heavy air raid last night. I cheered inwardly. I wanted to dance in the streets. But so many people died. Civilians, burned to death or buried beneath the rubble. Women, children... It's so unfair. War doesn't distinguish between good and bad people, it just takes them all.

**Wednesday:** I'm writing this sitting in a bunker while my people bomb this town again. Everyone thinks I'm writing to my sweetheart ( _Liebchen_ ), and I don't correct them. If I shouldn't survive this, be sure I loved you to the very end.

_Two weeks later..._

**Saturday:** I finally met my contact in Berlin. My target's name is Walter. We saw each other briefly in The Hague and, apparently, he thinks that I distinguished myself. I don't like this assumption. He's also rather Anglophile, perhaps that's why he chose me. I remember a conversation we had about London. Anyway, as he's now taking over from Jost, he wants to bring his own people in. I'll start tomorrow.

**Tuesday:** The job at Wilhelmstraße is dreary in the extreme, though the procedures are very efficient. I'm mostly filing. Mycroft would love it.

**Friday:** We all went for drinks after work, as if we were just office clerks. Which we kind of are, aren't we? My colleagues are so extremely loyal to the party line, it's hideous. Yet most are also rather grateful to have been graded 'uk'. Only a few are fanatic enough to aspire to die for their fatherland, blood and soil, and all this crap. They confessed that they envy me for having been on active duty. We were all sitting around one table. When it had got very late, and everyone was quite intoxicated, Walter put his hand on my thigh. I didn't pull away. I'm getting an inkling why Mycroft thought this commission suited me.

**Sunday:** Walter called earlier and we went for a walk. He offered to show me Berlin, particular places that might interest me. He also talked shop. Said he wants me to get involved with Salon Kitty, as ‘men like us’ are impartial to the female charms on display there. Men like us – as if we were alike! I’ve heard others talk about this operation and it seems to be rather salacious. I'm really not interested in listening in on other people having intercourse. We'll see.

_Three weeks later..._

**Wednesday:** Another day spent behind a peephole, watching a Bohemian diplomat mount one of the woman. I still feel dirty, like a voyeur, even if it does nothing for me. To my embarrassment, I met her again on my way out, yet she was totally unperturbed. Her name's Irene. She seems strangly familiar, but I can't put my finger on it.

**Friday:** Walter invited me over for the weekend. His wife is gone, visiting her mother. The house is in Weißensee, a leafy suburb. I think I know what will happen and I dread it. Sorry, I probably shouldn't write this down here for you. I guess I'll just lie back and think of England.

**Saturday:** I'm so sorry. I feel horrible. I'm thinking of you all the time while trying not to think of you all the time when I’m with him and it drives me mad.

**Sunday:** I'm back home. First thing I did was to take a prolonged, hot bath. I scrubbed my skin until it's now red all over. I feel raw. I'm not sure I can do this.

**Tuesday:** I had to watch Irene again. She visited my cubbyhole afterwards, we had tea and a little chat. It was quite surreal, with her almost naked, and me just in shirtsleeves as well. Now I know where I saw her before. She's an opera singer and was in London for the concert season 1937/38. I heard her in La Traviata at Covent Garden. As Joachim Lenz has also been to London before the war (my legend is that he worked for a shipping company), we quickly found some common ground. She's absolutely ruthless. I'm not sure what to make of her, but I think I like her.

**Thursday:** Met Irene again. She asked me out for drinks. I declined. But there's something about her... No, not THAT. Yet, I have to admit that she fascinates me. At least I know that she doesn't mind when I watch her. Makes it a little easier. I think she actually put quite a show on today for my benefit.

**Friday:** Irene asked me to lunch on Sunday. On a whim I accepted. What am I getting into, John?

**Sunday:** Lunch was very... revealing. Irene is originally from Poland. Impressive insight into human nature. She gave me a friendly warning and told me that I was a little too transparent. She'll see if it's possible to introduce me to some of her friends. We have to be careful.

**Wednesday:** Irene's husband was evacuated to England and is now with the 302. Polish Fighter Squadron. At least that's what she hopes, she hasn't heard from him in a while. We talk between clients. She promised to put me in contact with the Polish resistance if I could enquire with Mycroft on her husband's behalf. Walter is tedious in the extreme. He demands that I report to him 'personally'. That's when he expects certain favours. I have to oblige. Irene and I have a lot in common, don't you think?

**Friday:** Ahead lies another weekend with Walter. He wants to go to the seaside. Irene gave me a few useful tips how she manages to zone out during the act. She also suggested to get him sloshed. That should be easy. Professional advice is always highly appreciated.

**Sunday:** I don't know what to tell you. I remember this time last year, when I was with you. In London. I'm so sorry... this is all just awful. I'll try to sleep now.  
No chance. I'm lying awake in the middle of the night. It's too hot. Well, that, and I miss you. I wonder where you are, if you are back in England, if you still think of me... Perhaps you found someone else? Someone good and steady. I wish for you to be happy, John, you deserve it. God, I sound like a maudlin idiot. I'll shut up now. Do not forget me.

**Monday:** I was relieved from my watch at the brothel. Back at Wilhelmstraße now, as Walter's personal aide. At lunchtime, I was sick in the gents. Have to find a way to communicate with Irene.

**Wednesday:** Filing lists away, from France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Denmark, Norway. Rows of names. So many people. What is happening to them? They all seem to go to the same locations in the East: Auschwitz, Treblinka, Lublin, Belzec, Sobibor, those are the place names atop of those lists. I guess those are camps. But they must be bursting by now. And still new transports are rolling almost every day from all over Europe.

**Thursday:** I went round to Irene's place after work. She wasn't pleased to see me there. I left her my address.

**Monday:** Walter is a blustering bore afterwards, going endlessly on and on about racial purity, the noblest love being that between two men, about the Arian tradition of the Friedelehe, the struggle the German race is fighting, the bonding of blood and tosh like that. It repels me even more than the act itself. I try to tune him out but then he might let something important slip between his rants. It's tedious in the extreme.

**Thursday:** He took me to a hotel. It was even more sordid than usual. He said he loved me. I feel sick.

**Monday:** Walter got really drunk and boasted that he’d once been ordered to kidnap the Duke of Windsor and Mrs Simpson in Portugal, but the attempt failed. He wants us to live in London when the war is over. He hopes Hitler might appoint him governor there ( _Reichsstatthalter_ , god, those words! It's like a their very own language...). It's sickening, listening to him, talking about the city as if it already belongs to him. Luckily, he got so wasted he couldn’t get it up.

**Tuesday:** Irene came by tonight. She's trying to bring me together with a member of the Polish resistance. But they are very cautious. It will take some more time to gain their trust.

**Friday:** Walter told me about the network he built in England. He said that he knows what Churchill has for breakfast even before it's served. I teased him until he gave me a name: Mörz. Finally something substantial. My hard works starts to bear fruit.

**Tuesday:** Walter mentioned something he called _Englandspiel_. It seems a bunch of our men in the Netherlands got arrested. They are interred in a camp near Mauthausen. I have to report this to Mycroft immediately.

**Sunday:** Another name I got from Walter is Richard Christmann. He sabotages the French resistance. If they catch him, I hope they give him hell! Mycroft send me a message for Irene in exchange. Sad news, I'm afraid.

**Wednesday:** I'm so sick of this. My body feels numb. I can't bear him touching me anymore. He _[next few lines crossed out]_. I miss you so much. I would give an arm and leg just to hear your voice again.

**Friday:** Irene came by again. Witold has finally agreed to met me. I had to tell her about her husband. Shot down three weeks ago over the North Sea. I'm glad she kept her composure and took it with amiable countenance. She is a truly impressive woman, John.

**Saturday:** What Witold tells me is unbelievable. I'm sure he's lying to secure a passage to England. This is impossible.

**Sunday:** I refuse to believe what Witold tells me. Even the Germans won't sink that low. This is barbaric.

**Monday:** Met Witold again. He urged me to inform my superiors. Not sure. Of course, I've heard the rumours, but in a war truth dies first. I'll have to talk to Irene again. Maybe she knows more. She's rather well connected.

**Tuesday:** I had a nightmare. I dreamt about hundreds of people screaming in fear and agony, their faces contorted in horror, pointing at me, tearing my flesh from my bones. Woke up in the small hours, drenched in sweat. John, what am I going to do? I need you.

**Wednesday:** Told Witold that I need more proof. Can't get into contact with Irene, she seems to have left Berlin.

**Saturday:** Witold brought two friends who confirmed his story. I still can't believe it. But if it's true, we have to do something. Now! This is far worse than I ever imagined.

**Sunday:** John, where are you? I need you. You are my conductor of light. What am I supposed to do?

**Sunday:** Spend the day with Walter. If what Witold tells me is true, I want to strangle him in his sleep. His touch repels me even more than usual. He has literally blood on his hands. I hate him from the bottom of my heart.

**Wednesday:** I finally decided to send a radio message to Mycroft, forwarding Witold's report. As horrible as it is, I'm inclined to believe him. This is unprecedented evil, John. It has to stop.

**Thursday:** Nothing from Mycroft.

**Friday:** Nothing from Mycroft.

**Saturday:** Nothing from Mycroft!!! How is this possible? My useless fathead of a brother... _[next few words crossed out]_

**Sunday:** What is my bloody brother doing? What is my country doing? People are exterminated, and he has tea with the king and makes small talk at Whitehall?

**Tuesday:** I hate my brother. I hate my country. Cowards, all of them! Dear god, have mercy on our souls. You see what's happening to me, John... I don't even believe in god. Yet we'll have to argue our case in the face of history and future generations. When we are asked what we did to prevent this catastrophe, what can we say? What can I say?

**Friday:** Told Witold that my country won't help. The look on his face, John... I hate myself. So much. I let him down. England let him down. I'm so ashamed.

**Saturday:** Mycroft ordered my immediate return. Got a postcard signed with an 'I' – from Meiringen, Switzerland. She seems to have met a friend who ensured her safe passage. I'm relieved. I'm sure she'll be fine. She's a survivor.

**Sunday:** I can't. I'm so sorry, John, but I can't. People are dying, innocent people. And no one will lift a finger. No one cares. I couldn't look at myself in a mirror ever again if I obeyed my brother and returned. I love you, but I have to do this. I promise to stay alive.

_Two months later..._

**Sunday:** Poland is bleak. SS and Wehrmacht everywhere. My Polish is still insufficient. But my German helps. We are a very mixed crowd: Russians, Ukrainians, Hungarians, Finns, Germans and Poles – united in the pursuit to save as many people as possible. Yet in the face of the military superiority of the enemy, our small efforts seem doomed to fail. But at least we are doing something! Let's hope for the best. I think of you all the time. I hope you are save and in a better place than I am.

_Six weeks later..._

**Friday:** As it's getting winter, we are retreating into the woods. We have no adequate clothing, no food, no ammunition. Some comrades eat grass and leaves. We lost nearly half the men in our brigade already. We reassure each other that they died for a noble cause. Cold comfort, I know. But what else have I left? I could murder for a decent cup of tea.

_Four weeks later..._

**Monday:** I have a nasty cough that won't go away. We are hiding in an abandoned farmstead. No food, no water. We are melting snow with our hands because we can't light a fire. The Germans are nearby. If the East wind is blowing you can actually smell the camp. Like the scent of grilled meat. It's horrible. My comrades tell me that's because the SS burns the bodies. I'll never eat a roast again! Not that I'm lead into temptation here. We are lucky if we get some gruel once in a while. 

**Tuesday:** There was black snow today. It's ash, I'm told, from the crematories. I desperately want a hot bath. Instead, I drink myself to sleep with Vodka to feel a little warmth. It's so cold, John, you can't imagine. I'm wearing all the clothes I have, one above the other, like an onion, and I'm still freezing. Everything is damp. I feel like I'll never get warm again.

**Friday:** Today we rescued four women with two children. They are emaciated, just skin and bones. The children don't speak, don't laugh. They just stare at me with their huge eyes. They don't even cry. They just showed me the numbers tattooed on their forearms. Children, John, aged about five and seven...

**Sunday:** I don't want to write anymore about what I've seen. I miss you. I miss England. I miss London. I miss Marmite, tea, jam, custard, Cadbury's. I miss the rattling of the tube. I miss Regent's Park, the Thames, battered fish and chips dripping with grease and vinegar. I dream myself over there, into our warm, cosy bed, into your arms, when I'm able to sleep. My cough is so bad, it keeps me awake most of the time. Don't forget me, John. You are the one good thing life is worth living for. My whole body hurts. My hands and feet are suffering from frostbite. My socks are soaked in blood from open blisters. It's awful.  
Oh, I nearly forgot: Merry Christmas, John.

_Two months later..._

**Tuesday:** It's eventually getting spring. My cough is a little better, but now my leg hurts again. I'm a wreck. Yet I don't want to complain. Having seen what I saw, I have to say I'm lucky. Only, I'm so hungry all the time. I can't sleep because my stomach hurts. Let's hope that March will bring some improvement of our situation. When we can't sleep, we tell each other what we will eat when we get back home. I dream of very simple stuff: bread and butter pudding, carrot cake with thick, sweet icing, hot cross buns with melted butter, an orange. I have to stop now, I'm starting to feel dizzy.

_Two months later..._

**Wednesday:** We heard from Warsaw. First, we were so excited, but now it sounds just horrible, all hope crushed. At least they tried. They rose against their oppressors. They died proud. Does this make being slaughtered any better, I wonder?

_Three months later..._

**Thursday:** I finally broke down a few weeks back. My comrades had to leave me behind on a farm. The people took me in and cared for me, for which I'll be eternally grateful. I'm masking as a labourer. Thank god my Polish is almost fluent by now. But I keep myself to myself now that I'm better. I have no idea when I might join my unit again. No means of communication.

**Sunday:** I'm expected to attend church. Tedious. But the farmer's wife keeps beehives, to which I now tend. Her husband was taken away and shot by the Germans last winter as a revenge for some partisan action. Still, she took me in. She's not afraid, she says. Fierce, brave woman. It's rather beautiful around here in the summer. Woods, lakes, you can almost forget the war.

**Wednesday:** Agnieszka asked me if I had an _ukochany_ , a sweetheart. I said yes. She hopes that we'll be reunited soon. I hope so, too.

_Two weeks later..._

**Saturday:** I'm still exhausted and tire easily. Today a German patrol came by and wanted to see my papers. Agnieszka bribed them with some honey, and luckily they left. But it's getting dangerous. I might have to leave soon, try to reach one of the larger towns where I might be able to go to ground and connect with the Polish resistance again. I'm homesick, John.

_Three weeks later..._

**Monday:** I'm in Krakow. It must have been beautiful once, but now it's in ruins. It is an advantage that I kept my German papers. It might help. I'm hearing about Corsica and Italy and this really gets my hopes up.

**Friday:** Made contact with some officers from the Armia Krajowa. They want to try to reach Italy, to join forces with the allies. I've decided to go with them, if they'll have me. I don't think I'm of much use here any longer.

**Sunday:** We'll leave tomorrow. Our route runs via Ukraine, Romania, Bulgaria and Albania to Italy. It will take us approximately two to three weeks. If we make it. It's dangerous enemy territory. But there's no other way. And we have to hurry. It's already autumn.  
I think it's over two years now that I last saw you.

_Four weeks later..._

**Monday:** We are stuck in Tirana, waiting for a boat. I'm hungry. And so tired. My feet are still bleeding. But we made it. I miss you. Sometimes I can't recall you face, John, and that frightens me. Do you still think of me, I wonder?

**Friday:** We landed tonight near Bari and are now marching north-west, to unite with the 2nd Special Service Brigade near Anzio. The weather is bright. There are groves of pear and orange trees hung with fruit. It's like the land of milk and honey, John. Apropos, I hope Agnieszka still tends to the beehives. I can't remember when I last saw an orange. We picked some and were almost crying with delight. They taste sweet and tangy. God, it's lovely! 

**Saturday:** You would love this, John. We are all dressed up as women to pass the Italian check-points. Apparently, we are Polish girls, send from the _Generalgouvernement_ to entertain the axis troops. Or, plainly speaking, whores. Anyway, I'm looking quite dashing in a dark green frock with matching hat, shoes and gloves, my rather longish hair set in elaborate waves, with painted lips and a touch of rouge on my cheekbones. I imagine you undressing me, slowly, down to my silky underwear and stockings... I miss you so much it hurts.

**Thursday:** We arrived at the meeting point (to much cheering and some rather lewd remarks). I reported straight to the commander of the SOE unit, who'll get in touch with my brother. I'm not sure what consequences my defection will have. Did I desert my duties? I couldn't care less at the moment. People are speaking English, there's tea and something they keep telling me is shortbread, though it looks suspicious. Pleasures like these make facing a firing squad seem worth it. Perhaps I'll try to join ENSA. I seem to be a rather fetching lady. There might be a possible career for me in it, as a female impersonator? I couldn't bring myself to ask the commander to inquire with Mycroft about you. What if the answer I get is that you are dead or missing? That I couldn't face. Therefore, you simply can't be dead.

**Monday:** A cable arrived from my brother. He recommended me for the SOE, due to my exceptional experience behind enemy lines. I'm to liaise with the Polish unit. They even gave me a battledress! But we are encouraged to wear civilian clothes. This whole sabotage thing sounds like it's a blast (sorry for the pun).

**Wednesday:** There are some rather interesting operations lined up for us.

**Sunday:** I might just have blown up a bridge. Can you imagine how much I love this?

_Six weeks later..._

**New Year’s Eve:** I'm sipping a glass of Prosecco on a balcony in Naples. I can't believe I made it this far. The town is full of GIs, all out and about, having a good time. They are playing that song you used to hum... I don't remember what I did last New Year’s Eve. But browsing through this notebook, I see that it's my third New Year without you. This is unacceptable, John. This war has to end! I love you. I wish for nothing else than to kiss you when the clock strikes midnight. Wherever you are, be assured that I'm thinking of you with all my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [LO](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dutch_resistance) was a Dutch resistance organisation.
> 
> BdS: Commanders of the Security Police and the SD, or commanders of the SiPo and the SD, in short BdS (Befehlshaber der Sicherheitspolizei), were deployed by the Reich Security Office (RSHA) to the territories occupied by the National Socialists in a sort of RSHA branch office. They were - as before the Einsatzgruppen - dealing with intelligence-related activities as well as with "special treatments" (ie the murder) of the Jews. 
> 
>  Up until 1942[ Heinz Jost](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heinz_Jost) was chief of the Auslands-SD (foreign intelligence).
> 
>  Walter is Walter Schellenberg, one of the highest ranking men in the Sicherheitsdienst (SD): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Schellenberg
> 
> The Venlo Incident Mycroft mentioned in chapter three was a covert SD-Security Service operation, in the course of which two SIS agents were abducted on the outskirts of the town of Venlo on 9 November 1939. The incident was later used by the German Nazi government to help justify Germany's invasion of the Netherlands, while a neutral country, on 10 May 1940 (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venlo_Incident).
> 
> Wilhelmstraße was the seat of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt (RSHA) in Berlin.
> 
>  “uk” means Unabkömmlichkeit (indispensability). During the Second World War, it was a means for temporary or revocable dismissal or non-recruitment of specialists who were indispensable and irreplaceable for carrying out tasks of the war economy, transport, or administration.
> 
>  Salon Kitty was a high-class Berlin brothel used by the Nazi intelligence service for espionage purposes during WW2. This was just too good an opportunity to insert Irene into this story, I'm not even sorry (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salon_Kitty).
> 
>  Wilhelm Moerz was an alleged German spy in England during WW2 (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4775130.stm). Richard Christmann worked for the Nazi German Abwehr both in occupied and free France and later for the secret services of the Federal Republic of Germany, thus exemplifying the right-wing traditions in the West-German security agencies.
> 
>  Das Englandspiel (The England Game) was a counter intelligence operation launched by the German intelligence agency during WW2: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Englandspiel.
> 
>  I took some liberties with Witold Pilecki (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Witold_Pilecki), the author of Witold's Report, the first comprehensive Allied intelligence report on Auschwitz concentration camp and the Holocaust. Though it is true that the British Government was informed during the war of the Holocaust, and did not even bomb the railway lines leading to the camps (http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/great-britain-and-the-holocaust).
> 
>  When Sherlock mentions Warsaw, he means the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warsaw_Ghetto_Uprising).
> 
>  The Armia Krajowa was the Polish Home Army (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Home_Army).
> 
>  SOE means Special Operations Executive and was a British WW2 organisation. Following to conduct espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance in Nazi occupied Europe (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special_Operations_Executive).
> 
>  ENSA was The Entertainments National Service Association, an organisation set up in 1939 to provide entertainment for British armed forces personnel during WW2 (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Entertainments_National_Service_Association).
> 
> I had nice links to everything above but somehow I can't post them here, sorry!


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The collected unsend letters from John Watson to Sherlock Holmes, wherever you may be, my love...

_At sea, letter No. 1:_

My dearest Sherlock,  
I promised to write to you every day, so this is what I'm doing. We sailed from Portsmouth, bound for Port Said, so I've been told. There's already plenty to do. Most of the boys are seasick, one fell down the stairs and broke his leg. I'm helping the ship's doctor the best I can to stop thinking about you.  
I wished I could have seen you to say good-bye. To kiss you one last time. No, not the last time – only for the next few months – until we meet again.  
At least I was allowed back into the flat to get some of my things. I took the photograph from Brighton, I hope you don't mind. It's just, my brain is not like yours. I forget things. But I couldn’t live with forgetting you, the way you looked, your smile, your eyes, how you taste when you are desperate for me, the sounds you make when I'm inside you...  
God, Sherlock, I miss you already. How am I to stay sane? How am I to survive? Well, it's just six months... I think I simply have to carry on.  
Another private just vomited all over my lap. I have to go.  
All my love  
John

...

_At sea, letter No. 7:_

My darling,  
My fellow passengers have been worried about German submarine attacks – but up until now we've been lucky and escaped them. We'll reach Port Said tomorrow. Finally! I've never been to another country, and now I'm going to Egypt! I'm so excited. Perhaps I'll see the pyramids. I could do with firm ground beneath my feet again.  
We just got our papers. I'll be posted with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Whatever that means. We'll learn more tomorrow. A few of the other blokes have been commandeered to the same battalion. They are nice enough chaps, good company. Not as smart as you, of course. God, I miss you. I'd really like to know what you could tell me about my comrades or the officers! Who drinks too much, who has a gambling habit, who meets his mistress in High Wycombe...  
One of them, a Major Sholto, saw the photograph of us both in Brighton I have in my bunk. He didn't comment on it, just smiled a bit, looking a little sad. Maybe there are more people like us around here than first meets the eye? Think about it, how it would be if we could be open about our love, talk about it, like the other men talk about their wives and girlfriends.  
These thoughts make me a little sad, too, therefore I stop now.  
Good-night, my love  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 14:_

My dearest Sherlock,  
The desert is fast, like, huge. Don't laugh at me, it's truly majestic. It's very hot by day and freezing by night. We've now reached our outpost, fifty miles south of Marsa Matruh. I've no idea what we are doing here. It's just a few tents in the middle of nowhere. But I've already plenty to do: heatstrokes, dehydration, sunburn, you name it. One poor bugger got bitten by a scorpion. He might lose his leg. He's just nineteen, Sherlock, imagine that. And not wounded in action, just got bitten by a bloody insect. Ok, even I know that scorpions aren't insects, but anyway... it's so unfair.  
I've got to dash, another soldier fell off a camel. What a life I'm leading!  
I love you with all my heart  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 17:_

My darling Sherlock,  
We had to cut off the poor boys leg. He's been crying ever since. Back home, he was a footballer, played for Arsenal and even was to be capped for England.  
Sometimes, I hate my work from the bottom of my heart  
I hope you are all right. Could do with a hug from you, or a kiss, or just hearing your voice, telling me it will be alright.  
I'm too tired to write more.  
Love  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 41:_

My love,  
We are waiting. For what, I don't know. What am I doing here? What are we all doing here? At least I hope your mission is exciting and expedient, worth your time.  
It's so hot that I start to long for a foggy, damp November day in London. We are approaching Christmas! At home, we would eat fruit cake and drink mulled wine, at least before this bloody war broke out.  
But over here my clothes stick to my skin, and there's sand everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I already have a severe chafing in a place where it is really annyoing.  
Remember the Major I told you about, the one I met at sea? He arrived at our outpost a few days back. We've started to play cards in the evenings. Otherwise, even I would go mad with boredom. He's a very nice chap, from Wigan. He'd been posted to Afghanistan before. He doesn't talk much, but what he tells me about that country sounds fascinating.  
I miss you. I desperately want to touch you. Instead, I push my hand inside my drawers and have a sad wank now and then when I'm alone in my tent. Others are not so discreet, I'm afraid. The things I've seen since my arrival... I tell you all about it back in London. Some boys have contracted rather nasty pubic lice from the brothels they've visited in Cairo or Alexandria. Now they literally have an itch. They blush and stutter when they come to see me, it's almost endearing.  
Others engage in man to man action, mostly born out of need and not out of passion. Out here, it's only us boys, so what can you do? Most of the privates are not even twenty. Randy teenagers, most of them. So, things are bound to happen, aren't they? I stay out of it, obviously. They could be my sons, for god's sake, so don't worry your pretty head off.  
It's just a little over four and a half months before I'll see you again. Make no mistake, I'll eat you alive – and yes, I mean it exactly THAT way.  
Love  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 83:_

My dearest Sherlock,  
I'm brown as a nut by now. And bored to death. We are holding the fort – but what for? This isn't a war, this is an outing. The only good thing is that nearly half the time of my assignment has passed.  
James is getting impatient, too. He wants to move forward. But there are no new orders. He reminds me a bit of you, all this pent-up energy. But he's not as beautiful as you are. God, I miss your pliant body beneath me, your long, white legs, your dark curls between them, your lovely, lovely cock.  
I'll better stop before I get myself off while writing and come all over this page.  
All my love  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 112:_

My love,  
What a fool I've been. We came under fire today. I won't bore you with details, but 32 men are dead, another 63 wounded. Me and the nurses are working non-stop. It's a slaughterhouse, I'm literally wading through blood.  
What passing-bells for those who die as cattle? I read that somewhere and never quite understood its meaning until now.  
Remember how I whined about being bored? I swear I'll never do that again. All those poor kids! One screamed for his mummy till the end. Another one mistook me for his fiancée, he'd lost both his eyes as half his face had burned off. I held his hand until it was over.  
I have to stop now, others need me.  
Love  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 140:_

My dearest Sherlock,  
Eventually, the supplies arrived. Not just medicines, but also food and water. I can't believe how good a glass of fresh water can taste. Who needs champagne? Though I could do with a pint...  
It seems that we have fought off the Germans for now. But across the border, in Libya, there's still fighting going on. James wants to march towards Tobruk, but his hands are tied as we are told to stay put and await further orders.  
It's weird to know that fellow English soldiers are dying a few hundred miles away while we are sitting here, sunbathing, whiling away our time. The boys are getting itchy, though. Fights are breaking out more and more often. But it's not just those violent outbursts that increase. I surprised two corporals who where really going at it in a tent – I didn't report them, but advised them to be more careful. What can you do – those lads are just seizing the day.  
At least we are alive and well. As I hope you are, too. I'll see you in about a month back in dear old blighty.  
Love  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 170:_

My love,  
I hope I'll never set eyes on your brother again. Otherwise, I can't promise not to kill him. When I asked about my deployment, James – Major Sholto - just looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. Apparently, I'm to stay here.  
I can't right now...  
I have no words.  
I miss you so much I might start to cry.  
All my love  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 234:_

My dearest,  
We’ve just been told to get packing. But we are not moving forward, we are to retreat back East towards Alexandria. In a hurry. Something important is happening. I write more later.  
Love  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 270:_

My love,  
I'm alright. Many others aren't. We are still at El-Alamein. We have to stop the Germans. If they advance towards Alexandria and Suez, all is lost. We have to stay put and hold out, whatever the cost. And, oh, believe me, the costs are high.  
So many dead, so many injured. The dark spots on this letter are actual blood. I can't get my hands clean anymore.  
I have to dash, I'm needed.  
I love you. Please, stay alive!  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 275:_

My love,  
James was severely injured, not sure if he'll make it through the night. He let a raiding patrol but when they advanced they got under fire. He's the only survivor. I pray for him. That's all I can do.  
I love you  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 290:_

My love,  
It looks like James will make it. I'm so glad! Yet he's severely wounded. I'm not sure we'll be able to save his arm.  
The fighting continues. So many dead. But we are holding our ground. Sometimes we even advance. It's a bloody battle, I can tell you.  
Wherever you are, I hope you don't have to witness such suffering.  
The only thing that keeps me sane is my hope to see you again.  
Love  
John

...

_Egypt, Letter No. 304:_

My dearest,  
James is shipped off back home. I wished I could go with him. I'll miss him. He became a true friend.  
We embraced when he said good-bye. I think his lips touched my skin. I'm so starved for human contact, though, I can't be sure.  
He's a good man. Under different circumstances, we might have ended up together. But my heart is taken. I've told him as much. He appreciated my honesty. I trust him with my life.  
I'll miss him. But not as much as I miss you.  
All my love  
John

...

_North Africa, Letter No. 390:_

  
My love,  
We are advancing!  
Monty is showing the Krauts where to stick it! Finally!  
I'm a doctor. I shouldn't feel revengeful. But I do. The things I've seen... I want to pay them back.  
Please, don't judge me too hard. I'm trying to hold myself to a higher standard. But I'm not a saint. Sometimes, I just want to grab a gun and shoot some German soldiers. But I guess they are just frightened boys, too, homesick, too young to know better...  
What is our world becoming, Sherlock? How are we all to live with what we've done when this horrible war is finally over?  
I just want to hold you, to kiss you, be happy with you, like we were back in London. That's all I want.  
Love  
John

...

_North Africa, Letter No. 437:_

My dearest Sherlock,  
I have no idea where we are but I'm told we are on our way to Tunisia. For the first time in ages, I think we might win this bloody war.  
I've been in Egypt for over a year and haven't seen a single bloody pyramid. This is rather disappointing.  
Happy New Year, my love, wherever you are!  
Yours always  
John

...

_Libya, Letter No. 507:_

My love,  
I'm still at Tripoli. The hospital needs me, it's terribly understaffed. We are daily treating many casualties, though it seems that the Germans are retreating. There are rumours that Rommel left for Berlin. We'll see.  
I met a lovely young nurse. Her name is Mary. Sometimes, we talk between shifts. She's from Tottenham. A very funny lass.  
James wrote to me from England. He doesn't sound too good. He seems frustrated because he's bedridden. I'm worrying about him.  
I'm forgetting how your voice sounds when you gasp out my name, the sweet smell of your silky hair. You are slipping, ever so slightly. Please, stay with me.  
Love  
John

...

_Libya, Letter No. 534:_

My love,  
Believe me when I still call you that, despite what has happened. I was so alone, and she was there, warm, soft, accommodating. But it wasn't like it was with you. I barely got it up.  
It's been so long. She offered comfort. I took it.  
Just, I feel so bad right now. So dirty. I betrayed your trust. Please, forgive me.  
In the end, I told Mary that I was taken. She cried a little but accepted it. She thinks I'm married back home. Well, I am.  
I wish we could be for real, though. I would marry you any day, worship you, love you, in good times and bad, till death do us part.  
With von Arnim capitulating near Tunis, there's talk about us going over to Italy. We'll see.  
Please, love, believe me when I tell you that you are my one and only.  
Forgive me.  
Yours always, if you'll have me.  
John

...

_Libya, Letter No. 599:_

My love,  
We'll sail for Italy tomorrow. Never been there, though I recall you telling me travelling to Florence and Rome after university. So I'm getting my grand tour after all as well.  
It'll be good to be back in Europe. Africa was exciting, but it's all rather alien to me. So very different from home.  
James wrote again. He's stationed in Sandhurst now, training young officers. He sounds content.  
I still see Mary sometimes, just for a chat or a cup of tea (no use trying to go for a drink here). She's still nice and good fun... But...  
God, I long for you to touch me, to put your mouth on me and do wicked things to me. There are some pretty boys around, offering their services, but I can't... I don't want to debase myself. In the end, it comes down to money exchanged for services rendered. Pathetic.  
Please, don't think too bad of me.  
Love  
John

...

_Italy, Letter No. 673_

My love,  
Sicily is marvellous. I'm stationed at a hospital in Catania for the time being.  
You would truly love it here, I'm sure. I'm sitting beneath an old olive tree right now, eating dried tomatoes and cheese. It's heaven.  
I met Mary again. She was with a nice young fella called David. They said they wanted to get married. I'm so glad for them.  
I can actually imagine you sitting next to me here. You would tell me about Byron and Keats and all that. I miss you. I miss your fierce intellect. I miss your warm skin, your body. I dream about you constantly.  
Our picture from Brighton is fading due to the bright sun.  
I hope you are still alive. But somehow, I'm sure you are.  
It's been so long. I need you, so much.  
Love  
John

...

_Italy, Letter No. 740:_

My love,  
As much as I hate your brother, today I want to kiss him. He sent me a telegram in which he told me that you are alive and well. I'm so glad. I cried. I only learned now that you've been missing in action for almost eighteen months. Jesus, love... what happened to you?  
You have to tell me all about it when we meet again.  
I love you.  
I want you.  
John

…

_Italy, Letter No. 796:_

My darling,  
We are moving again, up north. Apparently, there have been developments. I don't know where we are heading, but at least the casualties are much lower than in North Africa. It seems everyone is tired, even the Germans. The Italians are for sure. Everybody I meet curses the Duce and Hitler.  
I'm truly hopeful that this godforsaken war ends soon and I will hold you in my arms again.  
All my love  
John

...

_Italy, Letter No. 810:_

My love,  
I'm in Naples right now. It's almost Christmas. I got you something, just in case. A token. I have the strangest premonitions. I dream of you every night. God, how much I love you. I imagine stroking your soft white skin, your silky curls, kissing down your chest...  
Yes, I am a little drunk. But as it's Christmas time, let a man dream.  
Love  
John

...

_Italy, Letter No. 835;_

My love,  
Just as I sat down to start my daily letter to you a telegram from your brother arrived. It just said 'Grand Hotel Vesuvio, room 221'.  
It's New Year’s Eve. Should this really be the answer to my prayers?  
I'm off to dash over to the hotel. I'll take all my letters with me, just in case...  
Love  
John


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, John and Sherlock meet again in Naples.

A tentative knock on his door has Sherlock step back inside from the balcony. He doesn't expect anyone. Perhaps some of his comrades who want to try again and invite him for a drink? But he told them that he wants to be alone tonight. He wants to think about John. Well, not just think, to be honest, but fantasise, getting lost in erotic thought... Because that's all that's left for him. An imaginary lover, as the real one is god knows where, if still alive at all.

Sherlock shakes his head, as if such a gesture could help him blocking out his gloomy self-pity, and sighs before opening the door, steeling himself to ward off yet another round of Polish cordiality.

Maybe he shouldn't have had that second glass of wine is the last coherent thought he remembers later before his mind goes entirely blank.

Because the image his optic nerve transmits to his brain can't be real.

Sherlock's heart literally skips a beat and he nearly faints when he recognises the man in front of him. He's thinner, more tanned, his hair is shorter and bleached almost white – but it's obviously John Watson who is standing in this corridor of a run-down Italian hotel, wearing the greyish-blue uniform of the RAMC. The stripes on his cuffs identify him as a captain. He holds a satchel in his left hand as he stares up at Sherlock in the same mixture of shock, awe and bewilderment that must be visible on his own face.

They just gaze at each other for over thirty seconds until John asks, his voice shaking: “May I come in?”

Sherlock steps aside as if in trance.

The reverie doesn't last long, however, for John pins him to the door the moment he has closed it, and kisses him hard, open-mouthed. There's nothing tentative there anymore, no uncertainty. John licks into him and Sherlock just follows his lead, their bodies pressed together from knees to chest. That is, until John inserts one knee between Sherlock's thighs and Sherlock starts to rut against it.

They don't say a single word when John starts to unbutton Sherlock's khaki shirt and wrestles the rough fabric off his shoulders, exposing his still pale, much too narrow chest.

They don't say a single word when John fumbles between them to open Sherlock fly and push his khaki trousers down his legs. There's a deep, ugly scar on his upper thigh, but John doesn't ask about that either.

John tries to reach for Sherlock's cock but Sherlock is faster, sinking to his knees to undo his boots. He has to do so blindly because John grabs his short dark curls and presses his face against his groin. Sherlock can feel the already hard length beneath the abrasive wool pulsing and mouths it greedily while attempting to untie his laces, cursing the knots under his breath in colourful language.

That's when John eventually makes a noise; it's half a choke and half a laugh.

They don't make it into the bed on the far side of the room. John takes Sherlock right there on the floor, the thin rug leaving burns on Sherlock's back. Sherlock eventually got naked but John only had time to pull his trousers down to mid-thigh before Sherlock grabbed him by the hips and positioned him between his spread legs. Luckily, there's still a bottle of olive oil next to the balsamic vinegar that had accompanied Sherlock's salad for dinner. Otherwise, they would have done it dry. Sherlock wouldn't have cared, but the oil makes everything deliciously slippery and much easier.

It has been such a long time.

John pushes into him with a grunt. There's no elaborate foreplay, they both just need a wild, raw fuck. Which is what they get.

The room is filled with their groans. Neither seems to care if anyone hears them. John is kissing and touching every inch of Sherlock's naked skin he can reach, while Sherlock desperately clings to his biceps, his back, his neck, staring up at him, refusing to blink as not to miss a mere second of the sight of John Watson above him, inside him.

When they kiss again their mouths crush together in an urgent frenzy. They both taste blood.

Sherlock hooks his ankles over John's shoulders and spreads even wider to draw him in, deeper and deeper, until he hits the spot that makes Sherlock literally howl.  


It doesn't take long. They are both too keyed up, starved for touch. John fucks Sherlock viciously, hard and fast, and bites down on his shoulder to stifle the cry as he comes deep inside him. Sherlock holds him tight as the aftershocks ripple through him, before he pushes up against John's hard-muscled belly, once, twice, and shoots his load all over his own chest right up to his chin. John watches, wide-eyed, before he bows down and licks Sherlock's come off his skin.

“God, I missed your taste. So fucking delicious.” He sighs, lapping at Sherlock's over-sensitive nipple. Sherlock pulls his face up by his short blond hair and sucks John's tongue into his mouth, tasting himself.

The only word Sherlock seems able to form is an endless litany of “John, John...” His trembling hands roam over John's body, who is still wearing his uniform, his jacket now decorated with stripes of come, his light-blue shirt stuck against his sweaty back, his trousers crumpled. As they kiss and kiss, it becomes evident that John doesn't care that he soils his clothes rubbing himself against Sherlock's trembling body. He'll wear those new stripes as a badge of honour.

It takes ages before he slowly eases out of Sherlock's body, just to lie next to him on the hard floor. He's too old for this but it doesn't matter if his back will protest tomorrow. All that counts is the here and now. John strokes Sherlock's hair, his chest and thinks that if he was to die right now, he could die happy.

They stay like this, overwhelmed yet sated, until Sherlock is suddenly shaken by a violent coughing fit. John holds him close, petting his sweaty shoulder and back until the spasms abate.

“This isn't a dream, is it?” Sherlock gasps after a while, sitting up and reaching for a glass of water, wincing a little when stretching his sore muscles.

John leans up on his elbows, smiles and shakes his head. “No, love, it's not.” And he pinches Sherlock's bum to prove it.

Eventually, they relocate to Sherlock's bed. It's small, but it's a real bed with a mattress, pillows and blankets. They both have slept in much worse conditions the previous years, so they don't care if it's narrow. They appreciate it, in fact.

Sherlock rests his head against John's chest, hugging him so tight that John has trouble breathing. Not that he minds.

“How did you find me?” Sherlock asks.

“Gorgeous. Beautiful. A bit too thin, though.” John grins smugly, staring up at the ceiling, his hands interlocking behind his head. Sherlock swats him on his upper thigh, then nuzzles even closer. “I got a mysterious telegram that told me to come here, in fact.” John confesses, giggling, gasping for breath.

“As much as I sometimes hate my brother, I have to say that this was actually pretty decent of him.” Sherlock mumbles against John's pectorals. His muscles have become quite defined, a fact Sherlock appreciates very much.

“Speaking of him... did you know that he lied to me back in London? That he told me it would be about six months...,” John tries not to sound too bitter but can't continue for the fear of his fury showing.

Sherlock stills nonetheless. “I'm not sure it was an outright lie.” He says eventually. “We both didn't know how long my mission would take. Or if I would make it back.”

Now it's John's turn to wrap his arms around Sherlock tightly, his thumb drawing circles on his biceps.

Sherlock's voice is a low rumble when he continues. “In fact, I took some liberties. I could have returned to England after about a year. But I decided against it. Perhaps that's why Mycroft kept you away as well? Even If you'd returned to England, you wouldn't have returned to me.”

John goes very still and is silent for a long time.

“Why did you decide against returning home?” He asks eventually trying to sound as casual as possible.

“I don't want to talk about it, not right now.” Sherlock sighs against John's skin. But then he stirs, frees himself, gets up and walks over to his desk, taking a sip of wine this time as he rummages through a drawer. John is struck once again by Sherlock's ethereal beauty. He's skinny, true, with protruding ribs and visible vertebrae, the joints of his bony shoulders and knees much too prominent, but his lithe body glows in the dimmed light, almost otherworldly. His movements are still elegant, even if there's a slight limp to his gait.

“What happened to your leg?” John asks, rolling onto his stomach, into the warm spot on the mattress Sherlock just vacated.

“I got shot early on, in Belgium. I wrote it all down. Here.”

Sherlock returns to the bed with the bottle of wine in one hand and a small black book, battered on its edges, held together by an elastic strap, in the other. He offers it to John with a serious look despite his nonchalance. John takes it, opens it and stares down at page after page of undecipherable dots, circles and wavy lines.

“It's in my own shorthand. I'm afraid I'll have to read it to you.”

“I could think of worse things. After that, you can read my letters to you, all 835.”

Sherlock sniggers, wrinkling his nose. “835. You kept your word.”

“I told you I would write to you every day.” John moves over to let Sherlock back into bed.

“How long do we have here?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

“I don't know. My unit has been stationed here for a few weeks already. They seem to gather forces around Naples before marching up against Rome. You?”

“Just arrived this morning. I'm with an SOE unit, but we were assured that we would make a base here for at least a week.”

John feels tears of joy well up in his eyes. “A whole week!” He exclaims, feeling suddenly giddy, and has to bury his head in Sherlock's neck. No use for the other man to see him sobbing like a love-sick debutante. To steady himself, he takes a large gulp from the wine bottle before pulling Sherlock down into another kiss.

Though he does cry a little when Sherlock reads him his journal later that night, after a second, much slower, much gentler round of lovemaking.

John is truly shocked by what Sherlock has been through, especially in Poland. He completely understands that Sherlock couldn't return to England, not with the horrible knowledge he'd acquired.

“I tried to make a difference.” Sherlock whispers as John tells him how proud he is of him. “I was so naïve...”

“You did the right thing. Those people you saved... they got a second chance, because of you. They are alive.” John has to choke back a sob.

“But they were so few. So few. Do you know how many die there every day?” Sherlock sounds equally shaken.

“We'll stop it. We'll stop them.” John promises fiercely, holding Sherlock close.

When Sherlock eventually has finished reading, they both stay silent for a while.

“About Walter...,” Sherlock begins carefully.

“I don't mind.” John says quickly. “I really don't. It was work. A mission. Did he... hurt you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. It was just very unpleasant. In general. Not because of the things he actually did.”

“I'd love to have seen you as a strawberry blond.” John jokes, trying to lighten the mood, curling a dark strand of hair around his finger.

“When we're back home I'll die my hair all the colours of the rainbow if it pleases you.” Sherlock grins back.

“No need, this is just fine.” John chuckles and kisses him.

Later, John gets another bottle of wine from a street vendor before he starts to read his letters to Sherlock. The sun is already rising when he finishes.

“You really liked him, didn't you? Major Sholto? James.” Sherlock asks as John has put the last page aside. His chin is resting on the back of his hand which is placed in the middle of John's chest. Despite the lack of sleep, his eyes are clear and bright, reflecting the colour of the cerulean Italian sky.

“As I said. In another time, who knows what might have been...,” John sighs. “I want to visit him when we are back home. I hope you don't mind?”

“Not at all.”

“And about Mary...”

But Sherlock stops him with a sweet, tender kiss to his lips. “No need to apologise. I had Walter, remember.”

“But with Mary, it was different. She wasn't part of my work. I did it because I thought I wanted it... her.”

“Well, and I really liked Irene. And Agnieszka. Who knows what might have happened if I stayed with her longer, or if she hadn't been such a devout catholic... It's this crazy war. It makes us do crazy things we later regret.” He rolls off of John and rests his head on one of the lumpy pillows.

“I'm glad we told each other.” John says after a little pause.

“Perhaps writing it down is a good idea? Perhaps we should stick to it?”

John kisses Sherlock's cheek, smiling. “Just not in his shorthand of yours. Write me proper love letters when we are back home. Featuring soppy promises of eternal love combined with brimming elegies about my strong and able body.”

“Oh, I will.” Sherlock grins deviously before he wrestles John’s strong and able body down onto the mattress for a lazy morning shag.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end of the story... beware, this is the chapter that made me cry writing it. Yet it ends somewhat hopeful - at least that's what I intended. It's up to you to decide if I succeeded.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, subscribing, commenting and kudoing!

_2011_

“Will, you’ll never guess what I found.” John pounds down the flight of stairs from the second bedroom they don't need anymore. Today, they are moving John's stuff into William's room behind the kitchen; or rather, John is moving his stuff while William pretends to sort through the clutter he's accumulated to clean out the cupboards and make some room for John's things.

“Well, in that case, there’s no reason I should try, is there?” William retorts a little absent-mindedly, suspiciously eyeing a plastic bag he discovered at the back of his sock drawer. There’s something squishy inside, yet William is certain that it hadn’t been squishy when he'd put it in there some months ago. He doesn’t dare to open it and preen inside, not without a respirator mask…

“This was in the back of that large built-in wardrobe upstairs.” John is a little out of breath and looks flushed with excitement, as if expecting an enthusiastic reaction from his partner.

William puts the bag back where it came from (and makes a mental note to himself to deal with it later when John is out) and decides to humour his lover – well, at least he tries as best he can. “Oh! It's a… box.” He evidently doesn’t sound as interested as John seems to have hoped for.

John is presenting the flat, blue cardboard box inscribed _Milk Tray_ in his outstretched hands like an offering. “And they say you're a genius...,” he sounds a little disappointed.

This whole relationship thing is still new to William – and it shows.

“Let's hope it doesn't still contain chocolates.” He offers, because some reaction seems to be called for.

John sighs as if he remembers that William, despite his cutting intellect, does sometimes need things explained to him straightforward. “No. It's letters. And a diary. I think.”

“You think?” William cocks his head, looking suddenly intrigued.

“Well, at least there's a notebook filled with an illegible scrawl. Some cipher? Shorthand? Could just be messy handwriting. But the letters are love letters.” John wiggles his eyebrows.

William rolls his eyes. “Oh god, please, I'm really not interested in the plebeian romantic outpourings of some poor sod residing here before our time.” He starts to turn to continue his search through his drawers.

“I just had a brief look. Some of them are rather... lewd.” Now John actually winks.

William just groans and throws up his hands in the air. “Dear god…”

“Wait, listen to this, for example.” John sets the box down on the – no, their – double-bed and rummages through the content till he finds what he's been looking for: _“'I imagine stroking your soft white skin, your silky curls, kissing down your chest.'_ Pretty hot, I'd say.”

John is holding a thin piece of old airmail-paper, bleached by time to a pale grey.

“Chest? Not breasts?” William wonders. “Are those dated?”

“No, just numbered. Gosh, there are over 800!” He leaves through them more thoroughly. “I'd say they are from the Second World War. Here, El-Alamain is mentioned. That's in North Africa, isn't it?

“Egypt.” William states, frowning. “Are they signed?”

“ _'Love, John'_.” John looks up, grinning broadly.

“Yes, I love you too, but what's the signature?” William asks brusquely.

John chuckles. “That's the signature. Bloke called John wrote all these. Seems my namesake had a talent for poetry as well. Born writers we are, I tell you. Listen, here, this is even better.“ John theatrically clears his throat and declaims: “ _'God, I miss your pliant body beneath me, your long, white legs, your dark curls between them, your lovely, lovely... cock.'_ ” He almost chokes on the last word.

They are suddenly both very quiet.

“What?” William asks after a moment.

“That's what it says, it says _'cock'_.” John stares down at the letter in his hands as if he doesn't believe his eyes.

“To whom was he writing?” William sinks down onto the bed as well and snatches the box from John's hands. “My love, Love, My Dearest... Ah, here... My dearest Sherlock.” He drops the letter as if it's suddenly on fire. “Sherlock?!”

“What? What is it? Do you know who those people are?”

William literally jumps up again and starts pacing the room, his fingers steepled under his chin. “ _Were_ , John. Those people _aren't_ anymore. In fact, great-uncle Sherlock died the year I was born. I owe him my rather flamboyant second name. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He was my grand-dad's younger brother, or so I've been told.”

“Seriously? Your great-uncle… What do you know about him... and this John?”

“Virtually nothing.” William flops back onto the bed. “He seems to have been the black sheep of the family, that's all I've gathered. No one ever talks about him. I think the two brothers had some sort of falling out. I once asked my father about him when I was a teenager, because of my strange name and my classmates making fun of it. All he could tell me was that his father, my grandfather Mycroft Holmes, had a younger brother whom he never talked about, who lived in London and had been involved in some sort of scandal. That seemed pretty exotic in my very conservative family. Therefore, I somehow related to this Sherlock as an adolescent. But that's it.”

“Well, I can imagine what kind of scandal that might have been, reading those letters. He was gay.” They both look down at the box, now sitting on the bedspread between them. This could proof to be Pandora's box...

“Do you mind if we…?” John makes a vague gesture. “Take a closer look.”

“Why would I mind?”

“Well, it’s your family. Who knows what skeletons we might unearth here.” John says carefully. He knows that William’s relationship with his own parents and his brother is strained as well, to put it mildly.

But William just shrugs, takes the box and starts going through it again. “Look, here's a photograph.”

It's a picture of two men, faded with time, the edges battered, but still recognisable. One is tall, handsome and pale, with dark curls tousled by the breeze. The resemblance to William is striking. The other one is smaller, with short fair hair and an open smile. They stand close together at what seems to be the seaside, but are not touching. “It says 'Brighton 1941' on the back.” John smiles. “I'm pretty sure that's your great-uncle. He's as pretty as you.” He dabs his finger at the taller man.

William swats John with a pillow but can’t suppress a pleased grin. “Well, and the other is short and blond like you. Looks a little fitter, though.” He sticks out his tongue and John tackles him to the ground.

“I show you how fit I am, you spoiled brat.” John growls, pushing one hand up into William’s curls and the other down his pyjama bottoms.

Over the next twenty minutes, the moving of John's stuff is forgotten along with those letters as they engage in a rather sexualised wrestling match that William is only too glad to lose. They are panting into each other’s mouth as John whispers: “What was that about your pliant body, your long, white legs, your dark curls between them and your lovely, lovely cock? I have to wholeheartedly agree.”

At this praise, William all too willingly spreads those aforementioned legs wide and lets John push his own gorgeous cock between them.

Afterwards, still sweaty and partly covered in come, they continue reading those inspiring letters, sitting side by side on the floor, huddled together under the duvet and leaning back against the bedframe. 

They start with letter number one and systematically make their way through the war experiences of this stranger called John. The cheap paper is brittle and the folds in the pages are sharp, as if they'd been folded and unfolded many times. They have to be very careful as to not have them crumble between their fingers.

It's getting dark when they finish the war letters. William is worrying his full, still slightly swollen lower lip between thumb and forefinger, staring down at the box. “There’s more.” He says, lost in thought. “I wonder...”

“Maybe. But I need dinner first.” John gets up and walks naked over into their kitchen to order Chinese. The full view of plump arse cheeks above muscular thighs distracts William enough to stop his brooding over the fate of long-forgotten people and motivate him to engage in the process of getting some sustenance in the presence.

…

“So, these letters end in Naples. What might have happened afterwards?” John smirks at William over a forkful of fried noodles half an hour later. They are both just wearing dressing gowns, squatting on their couch in the living room, balancing food containers on their knees.

William toys with a spring role. “We'll see.” Yet John knows that he’s a little excited as well to delve back into the past. As if to challenge this unspoken assumption, William continues: “I can see that you are imagining all sorts of adventurous entanglements, John. But reality might have been much more trivial or harsher.” Is he trying to curb John’s enthusiasm – or his own?

“Spoilsport. Let a man dream.” John teases through a mouthful of Krupuk and William shudders in disgust.

Later, they relocate back to their bedroom to dive into the box again.

There's a medal at the bottom. It's a silver cross on a dark blue ribbon.

“Wow. That's the George Cross.” John whispers in silent awe, turning it in the light of the bedside lamp. “That’s a pretty distinct honour. Any idea who it was awarded to?”

William shakes his head. The metal gleams in the lamp light, painting the walls with its sparkling reflections.

“Is there anyone we could ask? Is your grand-dad still alive?” John asks, fascinated.

“No, he died in 1997. He was way over ninety. That was when I became aware that he'd owned this place.” William waves his hand in a gesture that encompasses far more than the messy bedroom still smelling of sex.

John looks at him questioningly. “How so?”

“I inherited it. The whole building. I'd just come back from the US and needed a place to stay, and suddenly I owned a house in central London. I offered Mrs Hudson the downstairs flat and moved in here.” William explains. He knows it sounds blasé but that is what had happened.

“That was fourteen years ago. Didn't you… I don’t know, had some repairs done, or looked through the flat when you moved in, or some time after? You are the nosiest person I know.” John grins affectionately.

But William gnaws at his thumb, taking his time before answering. “I wasn't... well, back then. I just... didn’t care. Couldn’t care.” He can’t look at John when he makes this confession. His past is still sensitive territory between them, a sore wound they mostly ignore. William sighs before he continues. “And then I forgot.” He folds his hands in his lap to stop himself from biting himself bloody.

John lies back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling until he trusts his voice to come out steady. “Do you know who lived here before you?”

They both desperately try to navigate their conversation back into less muddied waters. It’s so much easier to discuss other people’s problems, William thinks.

“The place had stood empty for some time. Apparently, the last tenant shot himself in the upstairs bed room.” John pulls a face. He has slept in there for the past months. Maybe this explains his nightmares. “Grandfather seems to have had trouble to find new tenants afterwards. Or he just didn't bother. I doubt he needed the money.” 

William remembers the tall, bald, slightly overweight man who always dressed in immaculate bespoke three-piece suits. He’d worn an old-fashioned pocket watch, and one of William’s earliest memories is playing with its chain while bouncing on his grandfather’s knees. He’d been fond of good food and good wine and he had evidently possessed the money to pay for both; as he’d done for William’s excellent education, which his grandson had decided to throw away along with a trust fund he blew on heroin.

“And you never went upstairs to take a look? William Holmes, are you superstitious?” 

“Don't be ridiculous, John. There are no ghosts except those we make for ourselves.” He’s quite certain. He knows what he's talking about.

“Tea?” John offers a little abruptly, getting up, pressing a fleeting kiss to William’s hair.

They both need a few minutes. John occupies himself with brewing two cuppas while William breathes in and out, counting to four, until his heartbeat slows down.

John returns and presses a mug into his hand. “So, do you think your great-uncle Sherlock lived here with his lover John?” He looks at William over the rim of his own mug as he takes a sip.

William shrugs. “Seems likely. How else did those letters end up here? Grandfather must have allowed him to live here. Even if they weren't talking to each other.”

“Blood being thicker than water?” John offers.

“Something like that, yes. Grandfather was highly aware of traditions and manners. Family reputation and all that.” William smiles a crooked smile. “It angered him immensely that I didn't give a toss.”

“And yet, your grand-dad left the flat his gay brother had presumably lived in to his gay grandson. What was that, paying his debts? Or guilt-tripping you back into the family way?”

“Maybe we find out more if we look through the contents of the box again?” William suggests, avoiding to answer John’s question.

They move back to the living room where the light is better – and the atmosphere a little less charged.

“So, when your uncle Sherlock died the year you were born, at least he survived the war. Let’s find out what happened to our two love birds, shall we?” John settles onto the couch and pulls his legs up, placing the Milk Tray box on the coffee table.

William throws the Union Jack pillow at his lover's head as an answer before rummaging through the box again.

“Here's a bunch of letters in a different handwriting.” He says, retrieving a pile of envelops, yellowed with age, held together by a faded green ribbon.

_To Captain John Watson, RAMC, Nun Monkton Priory, Yorkshire_  
Rome, June 1944  
My dearest John,  
I'm in Rome. I remember the city from before the war, but it’s still magnificent and beautiful. I'm walking through the ruins of a much grander empire that wasn’t to last. History is ubiquitous. I'd like to take you back here when this war is over and show you all the breathtaking testimonials of a vanished civilisation. It puts things into perspective.  
I hope your shoulder is better? My brother tells me you are making good progress. I'm sure he selected a top of its class facility for your reconvalescence. Remember, you promised me to stay alive!  
During these past weeks of separation my mind has often wandered back to our days in Naples. Was it truly happenstance that we were both there at the same time?  
I miss you. There's so much I'd want to say to you, but it will have to wait till we meet again face to face.  
Always yours  
Sherlock 

William looks up from the letter. “Ok, you win. They truly met in Naples. God, I can't believe it. It's like some trashy slush you watch on TV.”

“Oi, shut it, will you. It was fate. They were destined to be together.” John chimes, steeling a kiss. “But this John seems to have been injured? He's back in England, in some kind of hospital or nursing home?”

“I'd say so. Have you recognised his last name?”

“It's rather common. Not as common as my first name, but still...” John falls silent, toying with the belt of his dressing gown. “Coincidence.” He mumbles.

William arches an eyebrow.

“What?” John asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nothing.” William busies himself to leave through the next letters. 

“Don’t give me that, Will.”

William puts the letters down onto the sofa. “Are you sure you didn’t have a gay relative called John Watson as well?”

“Are you taking the piss? Trying to freak me out?” John snickers, but William keeps staring at him until he relents. “Listen, I don’t know, okay? My family is distant and large. There’s a Scottish branch, for example. Perhaps… well, both my parents are dead, so we’ll never know.” He looks back at William defiantly until the man lowers his gaze back to the letters.

“It seems uncle Sherlock was rather reserved in his writing, compared to what John had dared to confide. But then, his letters were sent via force’s mail, so they would have been censored by the military. I'm sure he couldn't be as frank as he'd liked to be.”

John nods.

“Those letters also allow us to draw conclusions as to his progress until the war came to an end and the Allies advanced. Here, they marched North through Italy but were stopped due to bad weather for the winter south of Rimini. Apparently, my great-uncle was stuck there. Then his SOE unit was transferred to France and advanced with the 2. British Army. Here's a letter to John from April 1945:

_To Captain John Watson_  
221b Baker Street  
London NW1 

“So he was living here by then.” John remarks. Despite his earlier words, he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. A man bearing his very name had occupied these very rooms right here over sixty years ago…

William clears his throat before he continues:

_Belsen, April 1945_

He swallows, thickly, fearing that he might know what’s coming.

_Oh John,  
I can't describe what I saw today. It was sheer horror. I was with one of the first patrols to enter the camp, as I had some experience with those sites from my time in Poland. But nothing can prepare one for this… human apocalypse. Many of my comrades broke down crying. There were piles of bodies, John, only skin and bones. You couldn't distinguish between men and women... just skeletons. And the smell._

Williams voice breaks. He needs a moment before he can continue. John touches his knee as if to ground him, to remind him that this was all such a long time ago. It’s not their world, their history. And yet, those abominations seem to come alive as William continues.

_Those still alive weren't in much better shape. I fear many of them won't make it. It's so utterly unfair, they survived until now, only to perish after their ordeal is finally over._  
We started to take pictures and filmed roll after role, to document what happened here. No one shall ever be allowed to forget what men can do to men. I, at least, will never be able to. I desperately want to talk to you about it, about what I saw back in Poland, but I'm not sure I'll find the right words or the strength. It's all in my notebook, though.  
This will haunt me for the rest of my life. We failed those people, John. Now we have to live with our shame and our guilt.  
I have to stop now. I just can't continue.  
Always yours  
Sherlock 

“Jesus, Will. Have you seen those pictures he writes about?”

William nods, a lump in his throat. He quickly sorts through the rest of the letters. “It seems he moved on to Hamburg after that. Here, the last one:

_Hamburg, June 1945_  
My dearest John,  
Back in Hamburg again. The city is almost razed tot he ground. Yet somehow, life goes on.  
I'm coming home to you. We'll finally be together. At the eve before my ship sails back to England, I am ridden with fear as to how we'll manage. Will we be able to adjust to civilian life? Will we withstand the pressure we’ll be under, the necessity to hide our feelings for all the world, because apparently our love is illegal? How will we cope in the face of the persistent threat of exposure? I am reminded that we hardly knew each other before the war separated us for so long. And I must confess, I start to doubt that we will succeed.  
But then I remember your letters. I remember Naples. And I feel suddenly just giddy with anticipation. We'll have the rest of our lives to devote to each other. At least that's what I intend to do. Many other's won't have this chance.  
I'm not a coward, John Watson, as you must know by now. So, if you still want to have me, I'm yours. See, I’m making good on my promise to write you smouldering love letters. I hope you know what big concession I’m making here. For you! Only for you.  
All my love  
Sherlock 

“That's rather blatant.” John states.

William shrugs. “It was never posted. Look, no stamp.”

“So he must have delivered it in person?”

“So it seems.”

They both look at each other.

“What those men have been through...,” John wonders after a moment. “Oppression, injury, separation. Still, they served their country, a country that continued to punish them for who they were and whom they loved.”

William just nods, still browsing through the box.

He finds a crumbling newspaper clipping, dated 1947, showing a strikingly beautiful, dark-haired woman. The capture reads “Triumphant Return for Irene Adler to Covent Garden in Fidelio”. Someone has written at the margin: _“I know what you mean. A truly formidable woman. What a moving evening.”_

William shows it to John who just shrugs.

“Do you know her? After all, you are the classical music buff.”

William squints. “She was an opera singer, rather successful during the late forties and early fifties. I think she gave it all up when she married and moved to America. No idea why they kept this.”

“Perhaps your great-uncle was into classical music too?” John offers.

“Perhaps...” William is scanning the content of the box again.

“Ah, look, here’s a note from 1953. It's signed Sherlock again. Well, let's see what he has to say.”

William starts to read:

_Baker Street, 8th June 1953_  
John,  
I’m writing to you because you refuse to listen to me when I try and talk some sense into you!  
Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, those accusations are totally unfounded. I would never make advances towards any of my students. That boy is a mean little liar. And I'm not having that. He failed his course and thought he could blackmail me to give him a pass if he accused me of something untoward.  
Please, don't get yourself into trouble by saving my reputation. I will report him, and that'll be the end of the story. I told you once that I'm not a coward, and I didn’t fight in this bloody war to allow such vermin to take control over my life. I will not yield. I am right and he is wrong, and the authorities will have to agree to that.  
Just, please, don't do anything stupid you might regret later. You are a doctor, after all. He's not worth to get your hands dirty. Let justice take its course.  
I love you. I need you. I couldn't live with being parted from you again. That miserable war already stole so much of our time. You are no use to me in prison.  
Yours, always  
Sherlock 

William looks up from the piece of paper obviously torn from a notepad.

“Well, at least they were still together in 1953. But what is all this about? Sherlock seems to have been some sort of teacher, and a student accused him of sexual assault?”

John has a bad taste in his mouth and suddenly experiences the urge to smash something. “As a gay man during those times, he'd been the perfect victim for blackmail. Is there anything in that box indicating what might have happened?”

Sherlock looks through various papers at the bottom of the box. “Ah, here, a letter from the University of London: _'Dear Professor Holmes, as much as we regret it, we do see no other choice in this unfortunate matter as to terminate your contract at the end of August. You won't be teaching at the University of London's Department of Chemistry from the Fall term of 1953 onwards. We are deeply sorry, but the accusations brought up against you are of a nature that doesn't allow us to keep you in a position which brings you into contact with impressionable youths. In recognition of your services to the University and your academic stance we will, however, refrain from pressing criminal charges against you. On a personal level, let me express my deeply felt commiseration in regard of this whole sordid affair...'_ ”

William swallows. His eyes are stinging.

“Those fucking hypocrites!” John yells, slamming his fist into the coffee table. “They sacked him. Because some git filed a complaint...”

“At least he was spared a court case.” William sighs. He feels cold. “So he was a professor for chemistry.”

“For a while.” John says darkly. “And this John seems to have been practising as a doctor. Will, this is getting a little bit spooky, you have to admit.”

William smirks. “As you said, John is a very common name. I bet there are a few hundred doctors named John in the UK. No need to worry about transmigration of souls or whatever.”

“But how many doctors are named John Watson, live at Baker Street, and shag a bloke named Sherlock?”

“My name is not...! Apparently, two, in the last one hundred years. Not that improbable.”

John looks sceptical.

“And it’s not… For example, I’m not a chemistry professor.”

John throws an exasperated look over at their kitchen table, covered entirely with Bunsen burners, glass flasks and Petri dishes growing god knows what (William deemed it as an experiment a fortnight ago). “Sadly, you don’t bring in the decent salary associated with an academic post.” He growls.

“Oh, come off it, will you.” William sounds almost offended. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly probable explanation for it all.”

John takes the box from the coffee table. “Perhaps we’ll find it in here. Ah, look, a few newspaper cuttings from the late fifties and sixties. Apparently, your great-uncle became some sort of inventor. Here, he seems to have done research on forensic blood spatter analysis, among other things. Developed a method to… whatever, you’ll understand it. Look, that's him in 1961 with some inspectors from Scotland Yard.” John passes him the old article and grins. “Fascination with crime seems to run in the family. I hope he was better behaved than you are.” Sherlock is surrounded by grave looking officers in gala uniform with one of whom he’s shaking hands. He wears dark-rimmed spectacles by now, but otherwise seem unchanged.

William ignores John’s jibe. “And there is John.” He points out a small dapper figure standing a few feet apart from the group, almost hidden by a pillar. It's obviously the same man as in the photograph taken in Brighton twenty years earlier. His hair is still full, though the grainy black and white picture, yellowed with time, is too blurred to draw more conclusions about his looks.

There's another article from 1966. By now, Sherlock's temples have started greying. He seems to be in his early fifties but still looks dashing. “He's awarded a honorary degree from the University of Oxford.” William says, and has to smile at how proud he sounds, admiring the achievements of a man he’s never met.

“So, at least he got some recognition.” John says, still sounding a little bitter.

“Ah, and there is his John again.” The figure is clutching a cane by now, but his posture is upright, radiating admiration as he looks at the laureate from the corner of the picture.

“Aren't there any more letters?” John asks.

“Here is one from 1967. Seems to be from John. _'Can you believe this, my love? We are finally legal. No more fears. No more hiding. As if we ever did. But you know what I mean. I am 58, and you are 53, and we don't have to fear to go to prison when we go to bed with one another anymore! And believe me, I fully intend to take you to bed tonight, Sherlock Holmes, and to...,” William blushes a little as he continues, “fuck you so hard that you scream for the whole street to hear. Consenting adults in private, my arse. Or rather yours...'_ John, there's even a lewd drawing to go with this.” William isn't sure if he should be shocked or delighted by the rude silliness of those two men.

“They seem to have been pretty happy together.” John says, a wide grin on his face as he seems to relax again. “God, I wish we'll still be like them when we reach middle-age.”

William looks at him with a fierce expression of adoration on his face. “We will.” He promises, before lowering his gaze again to take the last papers out of the box.

“Oh!”

“What is it?” John moves over next to him, leaning over Williams shoulder.

“It's a death certificate.” William pales a little as he hands the form over to John, who reads it with raised eyebrows. “What is it? What does it say?”

John clears his throat. “Apparently, your great-uncle died of a pulmonary emphysema on... fuck me, Will, on January 6, 1976. Isn't that your birthday?”

William just nods. A slight shiver passes through him, as if someone walked over his grave. He pulls his dressing gown tighter around his light frame and leans a bit into John’s warm, reassuring body. John understands, puts an arm around him and holds him close for a moment.

“Is there anything else?” He mumbles against William’s collar bone.

William entangles himself reluctantly. “Just one more piece, addressed to Sherlock.” There’s a dove-grey envelope, made of heavy quality paper at the bottom of the box. It's in John's handwriting. William carefully unfolds the containing letter and reads aloud:

_Baker Street, 6th January 1977_  
My Love,  
It's been a year today that you passed away and left me. I tried, believe me, I did, but what use is there for me here, without you? You were my whole life, and now that you are gone, there's nothing left for me here in this world.  
I put my papers in order. During the past year, I ensured your last articles to be published. Mycroft was kind enough to let me stay at our flat. This was our home, after all, for all those mostly happy years, and I couldn't imagine to live anywhere else. I still feel your presence here, my love. But it's fading. The sheets don’t smell of you anymore, but of detergent. Your clothes lose your scent as well, smelling just of moth balls. I couldn’t bring myself to give them away to charity.  
I know I should have. I know I should let go. I know I should accept that you are gone and get on with my life. Just, there is no joy for me in a world without you in it. You were my light, my fate, my home. You saved me. You gave me purpose, meaning. Without you I feel... nothing.  
We had a good life together, hadn't we? We survived that bloody war, although you never quite came back from it. You lost something during those years we were apart. As I might have as well.  
35 years, Sherlock. More than half of my life I've spent with you. And now I'm tired. My back hurts, as does my shoulder. My eyesight starts to fail me. I remember your last months, how much you suffered, until it was finally over (why wouldn’t you allow me to help you, love, to deliver you from your misery? A stubborn git to the very last.) – and I’m not prepared to do the same. Besides, I'm lonely. I miss you every day. Your voice. Your touch.  
All I want is to be with you again, desperately. I want to touch your skin and kiss your impossible mouth and hear you pant beneath me. Like you used to, but never will again.  
Because you are dead, lying cold in your grave I can't visit without breaking down crying.  
I know that you didn't believe in heaven or an afterlife, but who knows? I'm about to find out. Testing a hypothesis, as you might have said, my love.  
I hope to see you on the other side. And if not, at least I'm ending this dreadful chore my life has become.  
I love you, Sherlock. I always loved you and I always will. I’m sure we’ll meet again, my beautiful boy.  
Yours forever  
John 

There are actual tears glistening in William’s red-rimmed eyes when he stops reading. John takes him in his arms again and rocks him gently.

“It's ok... it's alright.” He mumbles, his voice rough as he strokes William’s nape while biting back his own tears. “They were together until the end. They loved each other so much.”

William’s body shakes with a raw sob.

“I guess I know who killed himself here. No wonder grandfather didn't rent the flat after that.” He chokes out, before words fail him and he just holds onto John, pressing his hot face against his neck until the crying fit subsides.

“He seems to have respected their legacy. And waited for the right person to take over.” John whispers into William’s hair.

“The right _persons_. We're in this together.” William replies, shuffling back a little to look John square in the face. His skin is blotchy, his eyes are swollen and there’s some snot running from his nose, gathering on his upper lip – but to John he has never been more beautiful. They grin at each other through their teary gaze like two lovesick idiots.

William has the courtesy to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his dressing gown before attempting to kiss John. It’s gentle, exploring, a little bit like their very first kiss. Yet the promise is unmistakable.

“You know,” John mumbles against Williams lips, “Sherlock is actually a pretty good name, don't you think? Quite distinguished. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Has a ring to it, you have to admit.”

“I think about it.” William breaths, before capturing John's mouth again.

The old Milk Tray box slips to the floor as they start to undress each other, knocked over by the seam of John's dressing gown. The last piece of paper to fall out of it is just a scrap, bleached with time, ripped from a cigarette package some seventy years ago. It must have stuck to one of the sides of the box. 

_Sherlock Holmes, 221 b Baker Street, London NW1, If convenient, come at once. If inconvenient, come all the same._

\----------

In the ground-floor flat, Mrs Hudson turns on her radio. The boys have been busy upstairs all day, but now it's quiet.

Vera Lynn's voice fills her kitchen as she prepares a cup of tea, just like Sherlock prefers it, with way too much sugar and just a splash of milk. John, on the other hand, likes a stiff whisky in the evenings, so she pours him one and sets it down next to the tea cup on her kitchen table.

Just as she turns and leaves for her sitting room to switch on the telly, she can see two translucent figures holding each other in her darkened kitchen. They have shed their waistcoats and stiff collars, even rolled their shirt sleeves up to their elbows. 

During the days, they are usually dressed much more formal. Martha sometimes senses their presence on the stairs, or upstairs, one gazing out of the window, the other leaning against the fireplace. Yet they are not haunting this place, the only hints at their existence a whiff of pipe smoke or the low rasp of a violin at the small hours. They inhabit the house as an immortal entity, their undying love outlasting decades. 

They've been here since Hansom cabs drove on the streets and messenger boys ran up the stairs, and now are still occupying this place in the times of mobile phones, the internet and cars. What they must think of the changes they've witnessed, Martha wonders? Well, somehow, she's sure they are intrigued and fascinated by it. Yet there's also a touch of sorrow surrounding them. They were never allowed to hold hands on the streets or even call each other by their Christian names in public. Instead, they had to hide in the shadows and whisper of their love only in the save darkness behind bolted doors. 

To the world of shadows they've returned, existing somewhere in-between. Unable to stay, they seem yet unwilling to leave their home at 221 Baker Street. Here those two somehow survive, protecting their eternal love. They are always so tender with each other. It breaks Martha's heart to imagine the place without them.

Now, they sway a little to the music as they lean against each other. Martha leaves them to it.

In the morning, the glass and the mug will be empty, and the shadows will be gone.


End file.
